


lost on you

by charizona



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins & Hitmen, Established Relationship, F/F, Spies & Secret Agents, they are married they have a kid they have been lying to each other the entire time oh my!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: “Eve,” Villanelle says. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” There’s a pause, then a breathless laugh. “So I waited a socially acceptable amount of time to call you.”Eve fights a smile. “It’s been, like, five hours.”“I am social,” Villanelle argues, “and I’m accepting it.”ORA very loose, very chaotic Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 602
Kudos: 1155





	1. beginning

**Author's Note:**

> hello. as you can see from the tags and summary, this is a loose AU of mr. and mrs. smith. that means domesticity/marriage, and i've taken creative liberties to include a child. for reasons. 
> 
> this chapter is a prologue -- the next installment will feature a time skip. 
> 
> the next chapter is not written. i do not know how quickly i will write it, but i made a promise to myself a very long time ago when it came to fanfic to always finish big stuff. SO! everyone say thank you fixy for telling me to post this haha.
> 
> also, in terms of chapter length -- no IDEA. this was not supposed to be 5.5k words. anyway. ENJOY:)
> 
> (all language mistakes are my own, or rather, google translate's)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twitter is @theweedyke ! come chat/yell at me to keep writing this.
> 
> please check out my bio on twitter to donate/spread awareness of petitions and organizations that are gonna help out blm causes and people on the front lines.
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! xoxo

Vacation.

Does it count as a vacation if her best friend (and yet, technically, her boss) is here with her? Does it count if Eve is silently checking her emails on her phone while Bill wanders over to a small gift shop? What about if Eve’s counting down the  _ hours _ before they’re getting back on their flight to London and returning to the easy hum of their government jobs? 

“Stop that,” Bill says, and somehow, he’s materialized behind her and seized her phone.

Eve reaches for it. “I was checking the news!”

“I saw your email. Jesus, who taught you to lie that terribly?” He grins at her, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He looks god-awful in  _ shorts _ and a floral, short-sleeved button-up, and Eve’s embarrassed to be around him. 

“Probably my boss,” Eve grumbles. She glares at him a beat more, before sighing. “I’m going to be even less relaxed if you don’t let me check my phone. Knowing there aren’t any international emergencies is calming.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he says, grabbing her by the elbow and leading her down the street.

To be fair, they’re in Curacao. An all-inclusive resort paid for by Bill’s boss (Eve’s boss’ boss) and  _ not _ by the English government. Three months ago, Eve’s divorce was finalized, and after a few too many comments from Bill about her moping around the office, Eve had arrived to work to find a pamphlet for a resort vacation. Bill had rolled over on his chair and said, “We’re going together.”

There hadn’t been a discussion.

It  _ is _ nice, don’t get her wrong. It’s just… Eve’s always been a workaholic. Her job is her life. It’s why her marriage ended, it’s why she’d resigned herself to living single for a very, very long time, but hey, whatever makes you happy, right?

Bill drags Eve closer and closer to the beach. “I can’t wait to get tan,” he says, and Eve almost rolls her eyes. The first day of this stupid vacation, Bill had fallen asleep out by the pool and gotten a nasty sunburn. That, at least, had allowed for Eve to find her own solace in email checking and reading International news.

“I don’t want to get all sandy,” she complains. “Look, I brought a book. You can keep my phone, and I’ll just hang out here.” She gestures at a small cabana serving drinks, the perfect place to read the latest crime novel she’d picked up in the airport. 

Bill looks like he’s weighing his options. “Fine. You can even have this back.” He hands over her phone, and Eve makes a show of peace by immediately putting it in her pocket without checking it. Bill points a finger at her. “Don’t try to work.”

“I promise,” she says immediately.

But as soon as Bill’s too far away to be anything more than a faded, red blur in the distance, Eve settles in at the small bar and pulls out her phone. She scrolls through her emails, smiling at bit when she sees a chain sent by Elena.

**Yesterday, 12:03pm.**

_ god it’s boring here without you. come back, yeah? _

**Today, 9:32am.**

_ kenny brought me lunch. he said NOTHING. he just put it on my desk all awkward-like. please, if there’s a god in this world, he’ll keep me from pity-fucking him. _

**Today, 10:08am.**

_ i’m so bored i’ve imagined several different ways i could potentially pity-fuck him. _

**Today, 12:43pm.**

_ WAIT. you don’t think carolyn reads these???  _

**Today, 3:59pm.**

_ well. just finished a very boring briefing and carolyn did NOT look at me weird. if they do read them, they don’t read them same-day. please talk me out of pity-fucking kenny. _

Eve stifles her own laughter at the chain of messages, quickly typing out a reply for Elena to wait, at the very least, until Eve gets back until she makes any decisions regarding furthering her relationship with Kenny. She’s just about to turn to the bartender to order something when someone appears next to her, leaning casually on the bar.

Eve glances. She looks up, then looks away, before looking back, because  _ holy hell _ . The woman next to her looks like she could’ve walked straight out of a magazine. Golden, honey-blonde hair pulled into a half-ponytail, not a hair out of place. Heart-shaped sunglasses, and—  _ Jesus _ , she’s wearing what could be the exact same shirt Bill had on, but it’s unbuttoned, revealing a black bikini underneath it. Then, there’s the pale, bermuda shorts that never fit anyone, but seem to fit this woman perfectly.

Christ. 

The bartender forgets Eve’s existence, immediately turning to the woman next to her. “What would you like?”

“Water, please,” the woman answers, in a high-pitched  _ English _ accent. Something sparks within Eve at the thought that this woman might be from London.

“That’s no drink for a woman like yourself,” a man at the other end of the bar says, and Eve watches him out of the corner of her eye as he slides toward the woman. “I’m Austin.”

“And I’m uninterested,” the woman answers, as the bartender hands her a water.

“Oh, come on,” Austin tries. “Let me buy you something stronger.” His eyes flicker to Eve, who realizes she has been staring and very quickly turns her eyes to the bar. 

“I don’t think my girlfriend would like that,” the woman says. Then, someone is  _ touching _ Eve’s arm, and Eve looks up to find the woman has raised her sunglasses to her hairline, turned to Eve, and is—  _ smiling at her _ . “Right, darling?”

“Um,” Eve says, and Jesus, she’s a federal fucking employee, and all she can say is “um?” Eve clears her throat and realizes what this is: female solidarity in the face of a pestering, unimportant man. Nevermind the fact that no one would probably ever believe this woman and Eve were actually  _ dating _ , but Eve straightens and smiles at Austin. “Yeah, we’re actually just trying to have a nice time.”

The woman narrows her eyes, silently judging Eve’s improvisational skills, before she turns to Austin and smiles. “By ourselves,” she emphasizes. She makes a “shoo” motion with her hand. “Please leave.”

Austin looks between the two like he can read Eve’s mind — he really can’t believe they’re dating, but he moves off anyway, mouth pressed into a thin, dissatisfying line. Eve can’t help but think about how he’s not even in this woman’s league, either. No one is.

“Thank you,” the woman says, sighing dramatically. 

“Oh, not a problem,” Eve responds. “I’m sure it happens with you a lot.”

The woman shrugs, leaning against the bar in a very dominant, relaxed way. “Not so much, but I cannot blame people for wanting me.” She looks around the beach, then turns piercing green eyes back to Eve. “I’m Villanelle.”

She offers Eve a hand to shake, and Eve says, “Eve,” as they shake. 

“Very nice to meet you, Eve.” And did she just check Eve out? Eve blinks, unsure if she imagined the way Villanelle’s eyes dropped down and raked up her body. It’s nothing special, and considering Eve isn’t even dressed for the beach, there isn’t much to see. “Could I buy you a drink, as thanks?”

Eve fights a small smile. She turns to look behind her. “Oh, shoot. There’s no one I can use to pretend-date to get away from you.”

That breaks Villanelle’s solid expression. She laughs, exposing bright teeth, and Eve realizes too late that she is watching another woman’s lips a beat longer than she really should. “You are already pretend-dating me, remember?” Villanelle leans in, close enough that Eve gets a whiff of an intoxicating perfume. “I should also probably tell you,” she starts, before her accent shifts into something else entirely, “The accent is fake.”

It takes a moment for Eve to place the new accent. “Russian,” she guesses.

Villanelle’s eyes light up. “You are very good,” she says, and maybe it’s better this way. Villanelle’s voice with a slight tinge of Eastern-European forming it is lower, a bit raspier, and maybe a little bit sexy. “Where are you from?”

“London,” Eve answers. Villanelle’s brow furrows a bit, so Eve explains, “Really from the U.S., but I grew up in London, married Polish.”

“You’re married,” Villanelle repeats, smile faltering into something like disappointment. Her eyes dart down to Eve’s left hand, where her ring finger is bare. 

“Not anymore.”

The smile is back. “Oh?”

The way she says it, everything is suddenly undeniable. Eve can feel the intensity of Villanelle full force now, because it’s almost impossible to miss. Villanelle’s shuffled closer during their conversation, only a few inches away from Eve, and Eve guesses that to everyone looking in on them from the outside would guess they were either about to jump each other’s bones or kill each other. 

Eve’s gaze drops to Villanelle’s lips, and yeah, she’s really thinking about kissing this random woman on the beach because fuck it, why not? She’s single, she’s not subscribing to any labels or anything, she’s just… about to kiss a really sexy woman who is very much into Eve. When will this ever happen again?

“ _ Hallo _ ,” a voice says, and Villanelle’s gaze turns from sultry to venomous in a second, as she turns to whoever has interrupted them, leaving Eve bereft. They both look up to find two people in uniform, a man and a woman. Eve immediately sits up straighter, thinks about how her identification is back at the hotel. Carolyn wouldn’t be too pleased about Eve getting imprisoned in a random country. The man looks over both Eve and Villanelle before saying, “ _ Spreek je Nederlands?” _

Villanelle nods, but turns to Eve. “You don’t speak Dutch, do you?” She’s using her English accent again, and before Eve can even dwell on whatever that means, she shakes her head, and Villanelle turns back to the officers. “ _ Mijn vriend spreekt alleen Engels. _ ”

“Okay,” the man says in a heavy accent. “We are just wondering if either of you are traveling alone. There has been… some upset nearby.”

“Upset?” Eve asks, because hey, if she’s going to be on vacation, she could help solve something around her. “What kind of upset?”

“Nothing too concerning,” the woman answers.

Villanelle shrugs, leaning back a bit so she’s almost touching Eve. “Well, we aren’t alone,” she says. “My friend and I are just on holiday.”

The man scrutinizes Eve a beat. “You are American?”

“By birth,” Eve supplies. “I live in London. I have my ID back in the hotel room.”

“Oh, honey,” Villanelle says, voice dropping into an annoyed tone. “You don’t owe these fine people anything.” She turns back to the officers. “Do you know what you’re looking for? If not, I’d appreciate it if you could leave us alone.”

Eve balks. Who can just talk to the police like that? The officers shift a bit uncomfortably, obviously uneasy about being dismissed as such. The woman reaches into her pocket and hands over a card, saying, “If you hear about any unusual activity, please contact us.” They walk off, shuffling through the sand, and Villanelle tosses the card to the ground.

She turns to Eve, rolls her eyes as if to say  _ can you believe those guys? _ “Now where were we?” she says. “I think I was flirting with you, but if you do not want that, that is okay.”

“You were?” Eve stammers. “I mean, I didn’t realize we were—”

“Eve,” Villanelle says, low and dark and intense. “I think you are a beautiful woman. Are you not attracted to me? I have seen you looking.”

Eve has  _ never _ been called out like this. She doesn’t know what to do, or what to say, really, but Bill’s voice is in her ears, chuckling,  _ Please, just relax _ , so Eve does the only thing she wants to do, right now, in this moment. 

She kisses Villanelle.

Because yeah, Eve deserves to have a fucking vacation. She hasn’t slept with anyone else since she started dating Niko over ten years ago, because then they were married and then they weren’t having that much sex, and now? Now Eve is single and a really fucking hot Russian woman in South America  _ wants _ her, so fuck it. Villanelle’s lips are soft, warm, and taste a bit like some kind of chapstick. It’s a quick kiss, not really all that heated, but Eve pulls away feeling breathless, only to find Villanelle beaming at her. 

“You are full of surprises,” Villanelle murmurs. She’s close enough that Eve can feel her breath ghosting across her lips.

“Not usually,” Eve admits. “Usually, I’m—”

“How about this?” Villanelle acts like she didn’t just cut Eve off, but Eve lets her, because Villanelle grabs her hand and squeezes it. “I’d like to buy you a drink tonight. Where are you staying?”

Eve tells her. She watches Villanelle steal a pen from the bartender, and she lets Villanelle pull her hand over like they’re in high school. Villanelle writes down a time on Eve’s wrist, running her thumb over the numbers once they’re written. Eve can’t really think about anything other than the heat of Villanelle’s hand, but Villanelle is smiling again, soft and sexy, and now Eve is thinking about  _ that _ .

They say their goodbyes. Villanelle walks off, and Eve joins the onlookers who are watching her hips sway in those stupid bermuda shorts. God, how does someone make even  _ those _ look good?

Tonight cannot come fast enough.

.

“You’re acting very odd,” Bill comments, as they walk back to the hotel. Eve’s actually rushing a bit, eager to get back and dig through her suitcase for literally anything better to wear. She’d already mentally gone through her entire selection in her head, and she’s pretty sure she has absolutely  _ nothing _ to wear, but she wants to double check in time, so she can run out and buy something if she needs to. 

God, what’s happened to her? She hasn’t been on a date in years, but she’s never been on a date where she’s even considered buying a new outfit for.

“Eve?” Bill’s voice draws her back. “What’s happened?”

“Okay, so,” Eve starts, right hand reaching for her left wrist. “I met someone at the beach.”

It takes Bill approximately two seconds to realize Eve means she  _ met _ someone. “Eve! I knew you had it in you!” He leans in. “What’s he look like?”

This is a conversation she has to have. All right. Bill’s her best friend. Vocal about being into both men and women, sure, but in a committed relationship to a woman for the past few years. “Well,” Eve starts, heart hammering in her chest. “She’s, um, very attractive?”

Bill’s smile widens tenfold. “Tell me all. About. Her.”

So they spend the rest of the walk back to the hotel talking about Villanelle. Villanelle’s demeanor, her hair, her eyes, her body (fuck, her  _ body _ ), and perhaps most attractive of all, her energy. The pure, unadulterated wanting in the looks she’d given Eve. Her confidence, the sternness in her voice when she’d turned away Austin and those police officers—

“Wait, police?” Bill looks at her. “What were they up to?”

“Don’t know. They said something about some upset nearby. They were looking for tourists traveling alone.”

Bill hums. “Tell me more about how she and I have similar shirts.”

Eve laughs, correcting him because Villanelle’s shirt was most definitely not something she found on a tourist kiosk. It was expensively and purposefully stupid-looking, so therefore it looked… breathtaking.

They get back to the hotel and Eve realizes two things. One, she really hopes Villanelle has a room somewhere, because if things go the direction she’s hoping they do tonight, she’s not really into the idea of kicking Bill out of their shared room. Whose idea had that been, anyway? Two, Eve does not have to go shopping. Not because she has clothes in her suitcase that are suitable, but because when she walks into their room, there’s a box on her bed with a note on it.

A note from Villanelle.

“Christ, Eve,” Bill says, whistling. “I leave you alone for half a day and you find a, what are they called? Sugar mother?” He grabs the note before Eve can.

“Shut up,” Eve says. “She’s ten years younger than me.”

“ _ What? _ You did not mention that.” Bill sits on the edge of the bed, opening the note. “‘Eve, I hope this gift finds you well.’ Well, that’s underwhelming.”

“Should I open it?”

“Should you— Yes, Eve, for fuck’s sake open it.” Bill reaches for the box himself, grabbing one edge of the lid and tugging it off. The two of them look eagerly to see what’s inside. Tissue paper. Eve’s hands tremble a bit as she pulls that out, too, and holy  _ shit _ .

Clothes. Several clothes. Notably, a dress and black pumps, sitting amongst what looks like a very expensive pantsuit. Another note, too, that reads  _ I realized too late I do not know what your style is. Feel free to wear whatever makes you comfortable. _ Eve smiles, sifting through clothes that likely cost more than she pays monthly for her flat. Her hand knocks another box, and she pulls it out, finding a bottle of perfume.

“I’m starting to think this woman is a control freak,” Bill murmurs.

No, Eve wants to argue. She just knows what she likes. Eve tests the perfume a bit on her wrists, and of course it’s the perfume Villanelle had been wearing earlier. Stronger, of course, and not muted by the sea breeze, but still undeniably sexy.

“You look like you’re about to come just from smelling that,” Bill comments, drawing Eve out of whatever place she’d just been.

“Do not ever say that word to me again,” she groans. She turns back the clothes. “What should I wear?”

They decide on the dress. It’s black and white with thin straps, and the fabric hugs Eve’s body in a way that none of her other clothes do. She feels sexy wearing it, knows she looks sexy (which is reinforced when Bill wolf whistles as she emerges from the bathroom), and she stares at herself in the mirror as her heart thumps with excitement. 

Is she really doing this? Going on a date with a random woman she just met, hopefully to end up back at a hotel having sex with that same woman? Eve runs her hands over her stomach, then her hips. She reaches up and runs her fingers through her hair, shaking out her curls. Truthfully, she feels like she’s a teenager again, butterflies flipping through her at the mere thought of seeing Villanelle at the bar.

She looks at Bill. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

He steps up to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve got to get back out there eventually.” He squeezes, giving her a small smile. “Can I come snoop and see how smoking she is?”

“Definitely not,” Eve laughs, but the thought is a bit comforting. “I’ll update you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Eve, you sly dog.”

She shakes her head as she leaves, slipping into the hallway and finally letting out a breath. The hotel bar she’s meeting Villanelle at is only a few blocks away, and Eve spends the entire walk there rethinking this entire thing, convincing herself to keep going, and repeat. She stands outside of the hotel and looks up at it — it’s five star, and of course, this is where Villanelle would be staying.

It takes her two minutes to convince herself to walk inside. Chest tight, she surveys the people at the bar, realizing how upscale all of this actually is. Everyone is wearing clothes for fine dining, and Eve starts to worry that she won’t be able to recognize Villanelle in formal clothes. 

That worry disappears in the next moment — Villanelle stands at the bar, one arm resting on the counter and the rest of her turned toward Eve. They spot each other, and Eve raises a hand in greeting and starts walking. Villanelle’s in a suit the color of rust, delicately clashing with her hair hanging over her shoulder in pin-straight perfection. Only one button done, with a white button-up underneath. Her sleeves are rolled up, an expensive watch on her wrist, and she gives Eve a warm, intoxicating smile.

Eve reaches her, and Villanelle pulls her in and presses her lips to each of Eve’s cheeks. “You came,” she murmurs.

“It would’ve been rude not to,” Eve counters. She sits on the seat next to Villanelle, and immediately the bartender comes over to them.

Villanelle orders in Spanish, and once the bartender moves off, Eve can’t help but ask. “You speak Dutch and Spanish?”

“Among others,” Villanelle responds. “Russian, English, French, Mandarin… a few more that I cannot remember right now.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Eve jokes, “I’d think you were some kind of spy.”

Villanelle laughs. “No, that would be too easy.” Her eyes roam over Eve. “That dress fits spectacularly. Does it feel good?”

“Oh, um, yeah. You didn’t have to do all that—”

“I did not buy it,” Villanelle says, raising a hand solemnly. “I borrowed them from my employer.”

There it is. Eve mentally smacks herself in the face. “You work in fashion.”

“Technically, I translate for a very famous designer, but yes, I work in fashion. I appreciate how clothes can… accentuate what makes people unique. For instance, you have a very nice body. There is no point not to show it off, unless, of course, you are not interested in the attention.” To further prove her point, Villanelle takes her time in looking, focusing on Eve’s legs before coming back up to her face. “You had your hair up earlier.”

“Yeah, is that— this is okay?”

“More than okay,” Villanelle says. “May I?” She reaches out, waiting for Eve’s permission. Eve nods, unsure about what’s happening, but then Villanelle tucks a hand around Eve’s ear, running it through a small section of Eve’s hair. She murmurs, “Gorgeous.”

This is the first time Eve has ever felt this exposed, yet accepted. Villanelle’s fingertips on her cheek burn through her, straight to her gut. She clears her throat, grateful for the bartender’s reappearance. She downs half her drink in a moment, and Villanelle smiles at her, amused. 

“Not too much,” Villanelle says. “It would be a shame if you were to forget tonight.”

Eve almost chokes on her drink. 

Within the hour, they are in the hotel elevator, Eve buzzing from the alcohol, and Villanelle is very, very close to her. She’s laughing, telling Eve a story about a time she got a translation horrifically wrong, but Eve isn’t really focusing on that because there’s a small piece of skin from Villanelle’s sternum exposed from the way her shirt is crinkled. Eve wants to— 

One moment, Villanelle is talking, and the next, Eve is kissing her because once again, fuck it. She presses into Villanelle urgently, pushing open Villanelle’s lips with her tongue, and then there are hands on her hips, tugging her closer. It’s messy, wet, and fuck if Eve hasn’t felt like this in a long, long time.

The elevator bell dings.

They separate as a man steps into the elevator, giving them a nod and turning around to face the doors. Eve’s cheeks are burning, but even more so as the doors close and Villanelle’s hand slips from her waist to her ass, and then further down to her thigh, right where the hem of Eve’s dress meets skin.

Her hand slips under the hem. Fuck. Eve watches the numbers on the elevator climb higher and higher, as Villanelle’s  _ hand _ climbs higher and higher, and fucking  _ of course _ , Villanelle’s room is somewhere at the top.

The elevator stops again, and the man gets off just as Villanelle’s hand reaches the underside of Eve’s ass, thumb brushing—

The doors close again and this time, it’s Villanelle pouncing on Eve, shoving her hard against the wall and sliding both hands up her thighs and underneath her dress. She grabs Eve’s ass and pulls, just as her teeth scrape against Eve’s lips. They kiss hard for several seconds, before Eve regains her ability to think. 

“Not here,” Eve says, as Villanelle’s hand inches closer to where Eve wants her.

Villanelle nods, stepping back. She looks, for the first time, like something has gotten to her. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, and she stares at Eve like she wants to devour her. They ride the next few moments of the elevator in silence, just looking at each other. Finally, they reach the top floor of the hotel, the elevator doors sliding open. Villanelle holds out an arm, so Eve brushes past her, and Villanelle’s hand finds her lower back and leads her down the hallway.

A  _ beep _ as Villanelle slides her hotel card. 

And then Eve is against the otherside of the door, not even able to focus on the fact that this room has floor to ceiling windows that reveal a gorgeous view of the city and the ocean. She can’t focus on it because Villanelle is kissing her hungrily, a hand already between Eve’s thighs, fingers pressing against Eve’s underwear. Eve moans, a sharp feeling cutting through her as Villanelle finds her clit, and Jesus, how is she this close already?

“You are so sexy, Eve,” Villanelle murmurs, lips dragging across Eve’s throat. “You cannot  _ believe _ what you’ve done to me.”

“Fuck me, then,” Eve says, voice cracking. “Just— Fuck me.”

Villanelle nods frantically, hand shoving into Eve’s underwear and fingers sliding into Eve’s wetness. She doesn’t waste time, probing two fingers at Eve’s entrance. Eve waits for the sting, for the slight uncomfiness she usually feels even when she’s with herself, but it doesn’t come. Villanelle’s fingers curl inside of her, and Jesus, Eve barely felt them press  _ into _ her. Villanelle takes her time, dragging fingertips through Eve and sending hard shots of arousal through Eve’s entire body.

This is what vacation  _ should _ be, really. Villanelle hikes up one of Eve’s legs and fucks her against the hotel door so hard it starts to make small sounds as it hits the door frame. That doesn’t compare to the sounds Eve’s attempting to stifle, however, until Villanelle kisses her and says, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Eve gasps, and Villanelle holds her gaze, using her hips for leverage against Eve, and she’s pressing a third finger into Eve, her thumb rolling circles around Eve’s clit and Eve’s going to come in two seconds if she keeps this up. “I’m—  _ fuck _ , yes, like that, like that _ , yes— _ ”

She comes. It’s quick, rolls over into a second one because Villanelle doesn’t stop. Instead, her fingers keep moving as she drops to her knees, replacing her thumb with her mouth.

Holy shit. Eve is— she’s being fucked by a twenty-five year old in a penthouse hotel suite. There is another woman’s  _ mouth _ on her cunt right now and holy, “ _ Fuck,” _ Eve says again, head knocking back against the hotel door.

They do not leave the hotel door until Eve comes another two times. Villanelle practically carries Eve to the bedroom, dropping her on the bed and ravishing her again and again, until Eve finally calls a truce and takes her turn. It’s not some big revelatory moment for Eve, when she presses her face between Villanelle’s legs for the first time. It’s just heat and sweat and  _ Villanelle _ , and she looks good, smells good,  _ tastes _ fucking fantastic.

Eve stays the night. 

She wakes up before Villanelle does, glancing at the messy blonde head of hair tucked into the pillows next to her. Villanelle sleeps face down, naked, and Eve watches the sunrise through the windows from her spot in the bed.

Carefully, she starts to slide out of bed, but Villanelle’s sleepy hand finds her wrist. “Hey,” Villanelle says, smiling. “You’re leaving?”

“My flight’s in a few hours,” Eve explains, already feeling a bit like she’s on the walk of shame. But then Villanelle pushes herself up and slides over, throwing a leg over Eve’s waist and straddling her. Eve exhales at the feelling of Villanelle pressed against her, already wet as Villanelle leans down and kisses her. Her hips start moving, but Eve shakes her head. “I really do have to go.”

“I can be quick,” Villanelle promises. “But as a show of good faith—” She reaches past Eve to the side table and grabs a pen. She hands it to Eve, then turns over her own wrist. “Your number,” she prompts. 

“Oh.” Eve grabs Villanelle’s wrist like Villanelle had done the day before, pressing the tip of the pen into the soft skin there. “I mean, do we really have to pretend you’re going to call me?”

Villanelle tilts her head. “Pretend?”

“We’re not even from the same place,” Eve tries arguing.

“I am in London a lot.”

Eve’s brain short circuits. Villanelle wants this to be more than a one time thing? Okay. She smiles a bit falsely, not truly believing that Villanelle would want another go at with her when they’re not both living a vacation-based fantasy, and writes her number on Villanelle’s skin.

As soon as she finishes, Villanelle kisses her again and keeps her promise to be quick.

.

“I mean, it’s not like she’s going to call,” Eve says, and she’s on a bit of a nervous rant while standing next to Bill at the airport. They’re in line for food, and people keep giving them weird looks because Eve has told Bill, in full detail, about the night before. “Like, the sex was mindblowing,” she continues, “But for me. I don’t know about her— I didn’t really know what I was doing.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” Bill reassures. “There’s a certain point when instincts just take over.”

“But isn’t this the sort of thing that only happens in coming of age movies about women getting dangerously close to forty? She sleeps with someone younger and hotter, and they never speak again, but it changes her life.” Eve can count on one hand the movies that involve scenarios like this, but still. 

“First of all,” Bill says, stepping forward with the line. “You’re not close to forty. You’ve got five years until forty, and trust me, take it one day at a time with that. Secondly,” and he pauses to order something from the counter. “Secondly,” he continues, “This isn’t a movie. She asked for your number because she  _ wants  _ it. We will just have to wait and see what happens.”

“I’m going to murder Keiko for taking you to those affirmation classes,” Eve grumbles.

“Live in the present, Eve. Not the future where you imagine murdering my wife.”

They wait in the gate for their flight, and this time, it’s Bill checking his work emails and grumbling about the nonsense Elena seems to have sent his way, too. They talk a bit about the budding office romance between Elena and Kenny, Bill leaning over and offering to take up a bet on it. Eve refuses, instinctively checking her phone for notifications whenever she thinks Bill isn’t looking.

Just as they start boarding the flight, Eve’s phone rings. The number is unknown, no Caller ID, and Eve is praying it isn’t a solicitor when she answers, “Hello?”

“Eve,” a familiar voice says. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” There’s a pause, then a breathless laugh. “So I waited a socially acceptable amount of time to call you.”

Bill glances at her, raising a brow. She waves him off, saying into the phone, “It’s been, like, five hours.”

“I am social,” Villanelle argues, “And I’m accepting it.” Eve grins, once again feeling like a teenaged version of herself hugging the landline cord and twirling it around her finger. “I’m going to be in London next month,” Villanelle says. “Can I take you out?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” Eve responds.

Villanelle counters, “No, you don’t.” 

Eve’s stomach flips. They say goodbye, eventually hang up, and it takes Bill one minute of bursting out of his skin before Eve snaps, “Okay, yes, we are going to meet up again.”

“Twenty quid you get married,” Bill teases.

“Twenty quid for you to shut up,” Eve fires back. She’s not marrying a woman ten years younger than her. She’s not even  _ dating _ said woman. It’s sex, that’s it. But as she approaches the boarding attendant and shows them her pass, a small smile tugs at her lips. 

Only a month until she sees Villanelle again.


	2. slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re both disgusting,” Elena comments, sipping wine.
> 
> “No.” Villanelle gives her a smile as she skirts around the counter. “We are romantic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three things --
> 
> 1\. i'm american and have no idea how school in england works. let's pretend i'm getting it right :)
> 
> 2\. one of my HUGE worries with this fic is that going into domesticity is going to kill your hopes for it. i really liked the idea of a villaneve child (inspired by [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511249/chapters/59171590) which has a delightful child who is a genius. mine just likes biting people.) but i promise she will only be here to cause conflict and there is a lot of smut to make up for the fact that there is a child. 
> 
> 3\. woohoo update schedule! very loosely, i will be posting once a week. probably mon/tue/wed, depending.

**_seven years later_ **

.

  
  


When she was hired by her current employer, Villanelle took a test. It had been a fill in the little circles kind of test, written, and she’d watched them run it through a scantron, watched them look it over before murmuring, “Excuse me,” as they exited the room. She’d waited, getting restless and bored, for the better part of ten minutes, before Konstantin had walked in and given her a smile. Slowly, he explained what they’d found. 

He told her she was incompatible with a normal life. That she’d never be able to settle down and be happy for happy’s sake. She would be unable to form genuine, human connections because she’s simply not wired that way. She’d listened and nodded her head because that is what people did when they received upsetting news. Then, she’d walked out of that room and thought about every single way she could prove that stupid test wrong.

And through the years, Villanelle had learned that she is, indeed, incompatible with a certain way of living. She is okay with that.

She is especially okay with being incompatible with her daughter’s kindergarten teacher.

They are not on good terms, already, and it has only been a week since Antonia started school. Ms. Fennell had not started the conversation well and had wisely decided to wait until Eve showed up. Eve is simultaneously the good cop and the bad cop in their parenting expedition. Villanelle is fun cop. Villanelle is I-will-beat-up-a-primary-school-teacher-for-calling-my-daughter-weird cop. 

Villanelle is in the middle of scrutinizing the small beads in the fabric of Ms. Fennell’s shirt when there are frantic steps in the hallway, and then Eve is rushing in, breathless. Beautiful. “Sorry, sorry,” Eve mutters, closing the door behind her. “Train broke down.”

“Not a problem,” Ms. Fennell says immediately. She glances warily at Villanelle, whose gaze ricochets off Eve to give the teacher a positively predatory smile. “We were just getting acquainted.”

Eve narrows her eyes, falling into the chair next to Villanelle. She looks to Villanelle, a silent plea that reads  _ please tell me you haven’t threatened to kill her _ .

Villanelle raises her brows, silently saying  _ not yet _ .

“So,” Ms. Fennell says, hands clasped on the desk. Out of view, Villanelle lets her hand settle on Eve’s leg. Ms. Fennell adjusts thick glasses on her nose, nodding her head like she’s giving herself an internal pep talk. Probably she is, Villanelle thinks. Ms. Fennell says, “Antonia has bitten a student.”

“She  _ bit _ someone?!” Eve says, at the same time laughter blooms in Villanelle’s chest. Eve shoots her a glare, and Villanelle shuts up. Villanelle can practically see the gears turning in Eve’s head as she opens her mouth, and she gives Eve’s knee a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry,” Eve says, leaning forward a bit. “Um, how did this happen?”

“The children were on the playground,” Ms. Fennell starts to explain, before she very distinctly recounts to them how she and the teacher’s aide found them after the incident occurred, and Villanelle’s only train of thought is—

“Did Antonia say anything else about what happened?”

Ms. Fennell blinks at her. “I’m sorry? She bit another child, and we need to discuss proper disciplinary action.”

“Did she break the skin?” Eve asks, joining Villanelle’s train of thought. Framing Antonia as the bully here doesn’t add up, not when Villanelle had caught Antonia crying a few days ago after school. Eve glances at Villanelle for back up, and Villanelle leans forward. 

The teacher blinks. “Well, no.”

“That’s a relief,” Villanelle responds, all fake charm. She tilts her head. “Did you ask her if she was provoked?”

“We do not tolerate violence of any kind from our students.” Ms. Fennell’s voice goes hard, and Villanelle smiles. “Whether or not they were provoked.”

“Two days ago, Antonia came home crying because someone pushed her during break,” Villanelle starts. “Have you heard about this at all?”

“If it’s been happening, she hasn’t informed any of our staff.”

“If,” Villanelle repeats. She looks at Eve, who is watching her in that way Eve does when she’s very into whatever Villanelle is saying. Perhaps being the I-will-kill-a-teacher-cop has its advantages. Villanelle likes that look a lot. She squeezes Eve’s knee again, and this time, Eve intertwines their fingers. Villanelle continues, “She had a bruise, and she told us it was because someone pushed her. She even went to the nurse.”

“Well, yes,” Ms. Fennell stammers. “She did go to the nurse. She was all right, but we assumed she fell. She didn’t tell us someone pushed her.” Villanelle doesn’t say a word, as she finds silence is the best motivator. She is correct. “Truthfully, we’ve been having other…  _ issues _ with Antonia.”

“What?” Eve snaps to attention. “What issues?”

“She’s quiet. She doesn’t take to the subjects like the other children do. She doesn’t like socializing, and if I’m being honest, I think she may need to be transferred.”

Villanelle goes cold. She remembers when she was in primary school and having the same problems. It wasn’t because she was behind or not understanding what was being taught, it was because she had been exceptional, even then, and her teachers had failed to see it or invest in it. She looks away from Ms. Fennell and tries to distract herself from the rage twisting through her, focusing on the small potted plants near the window. She’s been taking classes, you see, for anger management. There is a time and a place for anger like this, and right now is neither.

Eve squeezes her hand. Draws her back. “Thank you for your recommendation,” Eve says, but Villanelle can tell that Eve is not thankful at all. “We’ll consider it.”

Eve stands, and Villanelle follows, not unlike a lost puppy (but that is only because she wants to, thank you very much), but when Ms. Fennell calls after them, “Actually, we do need to discuss punishment for Antonia—”

Villanelle spins, speaking through tightly gritted teeth. “We are her parents,” she hisses. “She is five years old, and  _ we _ will discuss punishment, not you.” She lets out a breath, straightens, and gives Ms. Fennell a smile. “Thank you.”

The teacher does not have it in her to respond. Good, Villanelle thinks, as she and Eve emerge into the school hallway. The walls are peppered with random drawings and different signs pointing to the bathrooms, lockers, and front offices. Eve turns to her once they are alone, and Villanelle is grateful to feel the heat of Eve leaning against her.

“That was good,” Eve comments, and they’re still holding hands. Villanelle gives their arms a little tug, and Eve lets them swing. “ _ You _ were good.”

“I am always good.” Villanelle doesn’t have to look at Eve to know that is not what she means. She pouts a little, thinking about little Antonia. “Elena is waiting for us at home?”

“Yeah.” Eve sighs. They are both too tired these days.

“How did Carolyn like you leaving work early again?” 

Eve shoots her a glare. Villanelle laughs. “Let’s just say she did not like it.”

“She is lucky to have you,” Villanelle says simply, and Eve looks at her, a warm smile on her face. Eve’s in her usual attire — a turtleneck and business-casual slacks. Villanelle had been home when they got the call, but she’d changed out of her lounging robe and into a light blue day dress. 

Eve starts to say something, but then she stops. “In there, you got upset about something. You left for a bit.” Villanelle tenses, knowing what is coming. “Everything okay?”

A firm nod. “I was just thinking about how my teachers did not like me much in school, either.” They reach a corner in the hallways, and truthfully, Villanelle is unsure which way is out. Eve doesn’t look like she knows, either. “I don’t know,” Villanelle sighs, releasing Eve’s hand to shove hers in her pockets. “It was hard for me, knowing everyone was waiting for an explosion at any moment.”

She looks up at Eve, and there, in Eve’s face, is just pure love. “Oh, babe,” Eve says softly.

Villanelle shakes it off, giving Eve a smirk. “You look very sexy.”

It takes Eve off guard, that’s for sure, because Eve lets out a bark of a laugh. “I should’ve expected that,” she says, before letting out a breath. “Niko used to work in a place like this.”

“Yes, please kill the mood,” Villanelle groans. “Tell me more about your ex-husband.”

“If you’d  _ listen _ , instead of interrupting me,” Eve chastises. “As I was saying, he used to work somewhere like this, but he never wanted to…” Eve gestures a little bit. “You know.”

“Eve!” Villanelle steps closer, lowering her voice. “You are not suggesting…”

“It  _ is _ after hours,” Eve points out, and then Villanelle is checking over both shoulders before pulling Eve into a classroom. It looks like it’s for older students and it is, gratefully, empty, because in mere moments, Villanelle is lifting Eve onto the teacher’s desk and sending a cup of pens scattering across the floor. 

“Stop, stop, be quiet,” Eve hisses, but then she lets out a squeak of a moan when Villanelle’s hand shoves its way into her pants.

“You be quiet,” Villanelle taunts, and then they are kissing.

.

When they get home, Antonia is asleep on the couch, tucked against Elena who stares daggers at them when they quietly step inside. It’s a sweet-looking scene, but Villanelle is at once more concerned about Antonia’s well being than she is Elena’s distress, beelining for her daughter and sliding her hands underneath her little body. Antonia mumbles something in her sleep, blinking, but Villanelle hums under her breath and picks her up. She starts toward the stairs, sticking around long enough to hear Elena complain to Eve, “She fell asleep on me, and I was too afraid to move because she spent the whole afternoon proudly informing me she likes to  _ bite _ people, Eve.”

“She’s five,” Eve fires back, but then Villanelle is at the top of the stairs and almost to Antonia’s bedroom.

Currently, it is painted yellow. They painted it for Antonia’s fifth birthday and gave it a sunflower theme, because they are Antonia’s favorite flower. Villanelle doesn’t think about how if Antonia is asleep this early in the evening, she’ll be up later, as she rests her daughter into her bed. She pulls the covers up to Antonia’s shoulders, tucking her in. 

She really never thought she’d be here. She sits next to Antonia as the little girl snores, staring at her. Almost the spitting image of Eve, Antonia’s wild hair is splayed out across the pillows. Villanelle reaches toward her, brushing some of it out of her face.

Children were never on Villanelle’s radar. Not even after she and Eve got married, but then, a year after they’d made it official, Eve had expressed a quiet desire to maybe have a child, seeing as she was getting older. Villanelle had shrugged and said, “Sure,” because why not? Children are just smaller humans, and if you raise them correctly, they are not so bad. (This, of course, does not apply to her boss’ child, who she has had to watch on many occasions, who Villanelle detests with a burning passion.)

Okay, wait. Villanelle  _ might _ hate most children, but she does not hate  _ her  _ child. Purely because Antonia is hers. Hers and Eve’s.

In her pocket, her phone vibrates. Quiet, she stands and stalks out of the room, leaving the door open slightly behind her. Instead of going downstairs, she goes to her and Eve’s bedroom, answering her phone.

Speaking of bosses, it is hers. “Usual place. Thirty minutes,” a voice says on the other end, and the line goes dead.

Villanelle changes quickly out of her casual wear into high waisted, army green slacks, tucking a beige blouse into them. She finishes the look off with a belt before pulling her hair back, leaving small wisps to hang into her face. Finally, a long, black jacket that reaches down to her calves. She applies a layer of lipstick, presses her lips together, and smiles at her reflection. Beautiful.

Elena is still here, sitting in the kitchen with Eve as the two share a glass of wine. Villanelle hops the last few steps, then crosses to Eve and gives her a one-armed hug.

“Got called in?” Eve looks disappointed.

“Hopefully it is quick,” Villanelle responds, opening the fridge. She pulls out the orange juice, not bothering to use a glass. She takes a swig and puts it back.

“You’re an animal.” Elena watches her, grimacing.

As Villanelle puts the juice back, she says, “What is the point of getting a glass dirty if I only want a drink?”

“That’s her special juice,” Eve explains, rolling her eyes. “You’ll be back by tomorrow?”

Their anniversary. Six years. Villanelle guesses that she will most likely not be back by tomorrow, but there is no use to bumming Eve out right now. “I’ll do my best,” she says, once again moving to press a kiss to Eve’s head. Eve stops her, tugs her in for a real kiss, and if Eve’s lips are tinged a bit red from Villanelle’s lipstick, Villanelle is not complaining.

“You’re both disgusting,” Elena comments, sipping wine.

“No.” Villanelle gives her a smile as she skirts around the counter. “We are romantic.”

“Gross!” Elena calls after Villanelle as she goes to the front door. She slides out of the apartment smiling, glances around on instinct to see if anyone is standing around, before she walks down the street.

They live in a convenient part of London. Close to Antonia’s school and Eve’s work. Seeing as Villanelle gets called in all over the place, it didn’t matter much to her when they chose to stay in the house Eve shared with her ex-husband. Of course, Villanelle has plans for something bigger, larger, but that is for when Antonia starts high school or something, when they can send her to boarding school most of the year and Villanelle has enough money that she and Eve do not need to work ever again.

Because work… is complicated. When she met Eve, she’d been in Caracao for a very specific reason, had lied to Eve about her job, and when they’d started dating, Villanelle just didn’t mention it. Eve assumed Villanelle kept her job, and Villanelle let her assume. Because the truth is infinitely more complicated than either of them realize. 

Because Villanelle kills people for money. 

Okay. She does not do it  _ solely _ for money. She figured out early in her life that if she did not  _ do something _ , an itch would build beneath her skin, humming through her to the point of asphyxiation. She became volatile, prone to violent outbursts when she lost control. The first one had been two days after she’d walked out of a juvenile detention center in Moscow, when a homeless man found the small little hole she’d been sleeping in and disturbed her in the middle of the night.

She hit him hard enough that he stumbled back and hit the hard brick of an apartment building. His head went  _ crack _ , and his body slid to the ground. Villanelle stared at him, watching blood leak from his ears. She bent down, pressed her fingers to his neck and felt for a pulse. She didn’t find one.

She figured out she was good at killing people, liked it, even, so why not do it for money? She started independently, until she was sought after by not only the authorities, but also people with more influence than the authorities. More influence, and more  _ money _ . 

Eve does not know about this. Eve will not know about this because Villanelle is quitting soon, anyway, now that Antonia is starting school. She will quit as soon as the money in her account hits the number she always dreamt about, and also as soon as she figures out a way to stop the itching.

Villanelle reaches a small park, the sky already almost black, and spots the dark silhouette of Konstantin on one of the benches. She walks over, lands hard into the space beside him. “Hello!” He jolts, and she grins. “Got you.”

“Don’t do that,” he scolds, rubbing at his chest. “You know I am sensitive.”

“Too sensitive.” Villanelle leans back on the bench. “Please tell me this will be quick.”

He gives her a look, and already, Villanelle is wondering when the best time will be to call Eve and let her know that she will be missing their anniversary. Oh, and she’d need to cancel their reservations, too. This is shit.

“How is little Ant?” he asks, avoiding her question.

“You, of all people, are not allowed to call her that.” Villanelle frowns.  _ Antonia _ had been her idea. She liked the name, plain and simple, but Eve started calling her Ant before she had even stopped being  _ zero _ , and Villanelle hated that fucking nickname.

“It is her name,” Konstantin says. 

“How is your  _ demon _ ,” Villanelle shoots back. “Still being the worst?”

Konstantin chuckles, a sharp bark of a sound, and Villanelle scowls. Konstantin likes that people do not like his child. It is like pride, for him. For Villanelle, it is the opposite. Antonia is an angel, no matter how many people she bites, and everyone should treat her as such. 

“Irina is fine, as always.” Konstantin reaches into his pocket, pulling out a postcard. “Here is the next one. They want it quick and quiet.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.” He points at her. “Do not do anything funny.”

“I cannot help that I am a funny person,” she says, looking at the card. It’s for Vienna, showcasing a beautiful square in Autumn. The leaves are bright. It is a very nice picture. “How is Vienna, this time of year?”

“Cold,” he answers. He stands up, pulling his jacket tighter. “Please, just be quick about it. Otherwise, it’ll be me who gets an earful.”

“Wouldn’t want that  _ at all _ ,” she drawls. He glares at her, so she says, “Okay. I will be quick and quiet and  _ boring _ . Whatever.”

He rolls his eyes before he walks off, leaving Villanelle sitting on the bench by herself. She sighs. She waits until she can no longer see him before she stands up, too, listening to the sounds of the city in the air around her. She lets her head fall back, looking up at the inky black of the sky. She stands there for a long moment, just feeling, before she pulls out her phone and cancels the reservation for tomorrow.

.

The next day, she walks on a street in Vienna. It is not the street in the postcard, but it is a street, and there is a man walking toward her, laughing with a man who is probably his son, and there is a small, effective blade in Villanelle’s hand. She counts her steps, stares resolutely forward, and as she passes the man, she bumps into him accidentally on purpose.

“Oh, sorry!” she says, letting the words get lost in accented English. French, this time. The man waves her off, eyes dropping to look over her body, and the younger man gives Villanelle a onceover, too. They are both too stupid to realize what she’s actually done, and by the time Villanelle is walking away, the older man is on the ground, bleeding out.

She stops at the end of the street and turns around, just to double check, only to find the younger, posh-looking son staring at her. Watching. 

She hopes that is not a problem. Villanelle turns around just as quickly as she’s made eye contact. If this were any other day, she’d walk right up to the man and finish the job. No witnesses, no identification, but every other base has been covered. She will never see this man again, so what is the point?

Besides, it is her anniversary.

.

Eve is not angry. She sounds… sad, over the phone, and Villanelle wishes she could be there to kiss Eve’s temple, Eve’s cheeks, Eve’s lips. Kissing makes a lot of things better, but she knows just being near Villanelle makes Eve feel better, so. Villanelle being far away does not do a lot of good right now. 

Villanelle is restless the entire way home. There is usually a certain thrill she feels after a kill, especially one like this one, but she’s eager to just be home and in Eve’s arms. 

She is the first one off the tube back in London, pushing through the crowds in order to make it to the corner store near their house before it closes. She does not, in fact, make it, but she buys flowers often enough that when she taps on the glass to catch the owner’s attention (it is only ten after closing, she is not an  _ animal _ ), he lets her in without a word.

The bouquet is handpicked. She does not care about what flowers mean. She picks pink ones and yellow ones and white ones, arranging them in a way that looks very pretty, and then she tips an extra hundred dollars because she owes the owner quite a lot. 

The house is quiet when she enters, and Villanelle sighs, supposing that Eve has already gone to sleep. She makes her way to the kitchen and retrieves a vase, filling it with enough water to make the flowers last.

There’s a small murmur from the couch, and Villanelle turns, hand on a knife, before she realizes it is just Eve.

Eve, who waited up for her.

Eve, who waited up for her in the very expensive lingerie Villanelle bought her.

Eve pushes herself upright, blinking sleepily. “What time is it?” She seems really unaware that she’s wearing little to nothing except a lacy red bralette and matching panties and garters. Villanelle cannot look away from the expanse of leg on view, and Eve glances down and lets out a tired laugh. “Oh, right.”

Villanelle is on her in moments, pressing her back against the couch and kissing her warmly, softly, ravenously.

“Vee,” Eve says, voice quiet. “It’s so late.”

“It is our anniversary,” Villanelle objects, nosing her way to Eve’s throat. But Eve is right, so Villanelle pushes off the couch and holds out a hand for Eve, helping her to her feet.

Before Eve can object, Villanelle scoops her up and into her arms, bridal style. Eve lets out a yelp, before slamming her hands over mouth, and Villanelle  _ tsks _ at her. “Be quiet, Eve, or we will wake our little insect.”

“ _ Insect _ ?” Eve whispers, as they reach the stairs. Eve does not weigh very much, but stairs while carrying a whole other person require a lot of concentration.

“You are the one who calls her Ant.” Villanelle climbs the stairs, careful not to hit Eve’s feet on the edges of the wall.

She puts Eve down when they reach the top, both of them stopping to peek into Antonia’s room. “She missed you today,” Eve says, because today is Saturday and they all probably would’ve spent the day together, had Villanelle been home. 

“Was she good?”

“She still won’t shut up about how that kid tasted.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes, scoffing. “She did not even break the skin.” Eve pulls her toward the bedroom, giving Villanelle a stern look. Conceding, Villanelle says, “I will talk to her about the biting. She likes me more, anyway.”

“Only because you let her get away with things,” Eve grumbles, going toward their closet.

Villanelle grabs her from behind, tugging Eve so her ass presses against Villanelle’s hips. “Did you think I was going to let you get away with wearing this?” Eve lets out a long breath. Villanelle leans in close to Eve’s ear, resting her chin on Eve’s shoulder. “Are you still too tired? I have a surprise.”

“Mm, I might be too sleepy,” Eve murmurs, gasping a little as Villanelle bites at her shoulder. “See? You’re the one encouraging this biting thing.”

“Do not talk about our child when I am trying to seduce you, Eve.”

“You’re doing a shitty job,” Eve says, and Villanelle smiles. Instead of pushing things further, however, she lets Eve sink against her, holding her from behind. The sex is nice, but it is moments like this one that Villanelle really cherishes.

Being held.

“Let’s sleep,” she whispers into Eve’s ear. She helps Eve out of the lingerie, folding it neatly and resting it on a chair in the corner of their room. Their evening routine is tried and true; Villanelle hands Eve a loose tee to sleep in, grabs one for herself, and then they are in bed, Eve’s eyes fluttering closed almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

Villanelle stares at her a moment. “I can feel you looking,” Eve murmurs. Villanelle smiles.

“I am simply enjoying the view.”

“Turn over,” Eve tells her, and Villanelle does. Eve wraps her arms around Villanelle’s middle, pulling her close.

The last thought Villanelle has before she falls asleep, tucked neatly into Eve’s arms, is,  _ Incompatible with a normal life, my ass. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's an alternate ending to this chapter where they have very kinky sex... maybe it'll make it in at a later date. rip their anniversary
> 
> .
> 
> twitter is @theweedyke ! come chat/yell at me to keep writing this.
> 
> please check out my bio on twitter to donate/spread awareness of petitions and organizations that are gonna help out blm causes and people on the front lines.
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! xoxo


	3. echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elena grabs one of Eve’s hands. “None of this makes any sense because anyone who has ever seen you and Villanelle in the same room would never doubt how much she loves you. That woman is insane, but like in the insanely-in-love-with-you kind of insane.” Elena squeezes Eve’s hand. “If things are feeling weird, just talk to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter sponsored by me having several breakdowns this week while outlining this fic

It’s Sunday morning. The light streams into their bedroom, sifting through the curtains and casting long, soft shadows across Eve’s face. Eve reaches above her head, grasping the headboard tightly, and lets out a small sound. Villanelle’s face is buried between Eve’s legs, tongue moving rapidly and drawing Eve closer and closer to climax when—

Eve’s phone rings.

“Shit,” Eve groans, but when she reaches across the bed, Villanelle lifts her head (and, regretfully, the pressure of her tongue) to say, “Eve, no, please, we are in the middle of something.”

“It’s my work ringtone.” Eve’s hand closes over her phone, as Villanelle sighs and leans her cheek against Eve’s thigh, waiting, and Eve answers her phone. “Hello? Right. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Elena.”

She drops the phone. Villanelle’s breath ghosts against her thigh. “You have to go?”

“Yeah,” Eve says. But she really, really doesn’t want to. It takes about two seconds of internal debate before she’s winding her fingers into Villanelle’s hair and tugging her back down to finish what they’d started.

One shower and hastily put-together outfit later, Eve is shuffling out the door and waving goodbye to Villanelle, who is showing Ant how to make pancakes, and making her way to work. She gets there a perfect forty-five minutes after the phone call, stumbling in just as Elena emerges to look for her. “There you are,” Elena says, looking fantastic in a pressed shirt and a pencil skirt.

“I hate you for looking perfect right now,” Eve grumbles. She eyes Elena’s bagel, figuring out the best way she can steal it.

“I always look perfect.” Elena looks Eve up and down. “Everything okay?”

Besides the fact that this call couldn’t have come at a worse time? Eve doesn’t want to imagine what she’d be doing right now if she hadn’t gotten called in — Villanelle is usually a very thorough lover, but whenever she fucks up, she makes it up wholly and completely. Eve sighs. “I guess. Villanelle came home really late last night.”

“Late? I thought it was your anniversary.”

“It was.” They push through a set of double-doors, heading for the conference room. 

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Eve breathes. “She knows she fucked up. Today was supposed to be the makeup day.”

“Double yikes.”

Eve nods, the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the hallways. “I don’t know. I feel like something’s  _ off _ . Like she’s not just making up for last night, but something else.”

She doesn’t usually spend time thinking about her and Villanelle’s relationship so closely. They’d been head over heels from the start, which is why Eve ended up marrying a woman over ten years her junior. But now, the monotony seems to be setting in, cavernous walls closing in on them, and honestly, Eve’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“You’re joking, right?” Elena stops mid-walk to look at Eve. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I mean,” Eve starts, before snapping her mouth closed. It doesn’t really feel good to have Elena invalidate her feelings about this, so she glances at the ground, chewing at her lip. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about my marital problems, then we don’t—”

“No, Eve.” Elena grabs one of Eve’s hands. “None of this makes any sense because anyone who has  _ ever _ seen you and Villanelle in the same room would never doubt how much she loves you. That woman is insane, but like in the insanely-in-love-with- _ you _ kind of insane.” Elena squeezes Eve’s hand. “If things are feeling weird, just talk to her.”

Talk. Like it’s so easy. Elena doesn’t know Villanelle like Eve knows Villanelle. And it’s  _ weird _ that work has become important enough to warrant missing their anniversary. Sure, Eve is here, heading into work on their make-up anniversary, but still. She thought, after she’d left Niko behind, that she wouldn’t prioritize work over her partner (and her family) anymore. She’d thought Villanelle felt the same.

Since they’d met, Villanelle had only climbed higher in her job. First, she was assistant to the lead designer for the fashion firm, then, when it became apparent that her business skills were as good as (and basically better) than her translating skills, she’d been promoted. She’s now acting CEO, as the owner stepped down into partial retirement, and with the new responsibility came Villanelle being on call at any moment. Eve, too, is constantly on call. 

“Is it work?” Elena asks, realizing Eve’s left the planet.

Eve sighs. “It’s getting harder to lie to her,” she admits. Lie, because Villanelle doesn’t actually  _ know _ what Eve does for work. She knows Eve works a government job, but  _ which _ government job, Eve hasn’t told her.

Because, technically, she’s a spy.

She’d been promoted about a week or so before even met Villanelle. The trip to Caracao had been a sort of,  _ Congratulations on your divorce _ , from her boss, Carolyn, but it had also been a promotion gift. More money, worse hours, but Eve was finally where she wanted to be: working hard in intelligence.

And after Antonia was born, Eve took to the more physical side of the job, throwing herself into field training to feel like herself again. She started running on weekday mornings before work, trained in combat and how to use a gun, and while most of the time she sits at her desk and analyzed patterns of international assassins, occasionally she’s assigned a more demanding position.

Villanelle doesn’t know about any of it. They don’t talk about work, really, because they share so many interests and hobbies. Eve finds it easy to lie about the exact nature of the paperwork that keeps her late, but lately, it’s  _ Villanelle _ who is gone more and more often.

Eve’s at a loss for what to make of it.

“Then don’t lie,” Elena says simply, resuming walking. 

“I can’t tell her, you know that.”

“Don’t tell her you’re a spy for MI6.” Elena rolls her eyes at Eve. “Just tell her that you’ve been doing something classified the entire time. Besides, it’s not like you’ve told her you were a car salesman. She knows you work in government,  _ and _ she’s smart. A genius, actually, and it’s kind of scary.”

Thankfully, they reach their office, so they put the conversation on hold and take their places at their respective desks in the cramped room. Kenny is already there, looking a bit downtrodden in a stained t-shirt and shorts, but he gives Elena a warm smile, and Eve a nod. 

Eve glances at the desk in the corner. Bill’s desk. Empty.

The door opens, revealing Carolyn Martens, Eve’s boss. Tall with a short crop of brown hair, Carolyn’s probably one of the most intimidating people Eve’s ever met, but today she just looks weary. She adjusts a pair of glasses, surveys the team, and says, “Right. Let’s get started,” as she walks over to the information board. She pins a photo onto it — a man lying in the street, a pool of blood around him. “A man was murdered in Vienna.”

Eve’s already standing, looking at the picture. “Vienna?”

“Broad daylight. It was quick. He didn’t even notice something that happened. One minute he was walking, the next, he had a small puncture in his femoral artery and bled out.”

“Cool,” Eve breathes, and Carolyn glances at her.

“Yes.” Carolyn steps back, surveying the room. “I thought you’d say that. We have reason to believe this was the act of The Demon.”

“Wait,” Elena interjects. “Like, the woman we haven’t been able to put a face or a name to,  _ that _ Demon?”

“Precisely. Only this time,” Carolyn says, pausing for what Eve guesses must be dramatic effect, “we have a witness.”

Eve turns her sharply. The Demon started out as  _ her _ case. A pet project after she noticed a certain flair in several international assassinations. And then, on the fifth kill, there’d been a shred of DNA left over from the killer, confirmed what Eve had believed all along: their killer was a woman. So far, there had been no visual evidence of her, until now. A witness. 

Grief rips through Eve unexpectedly, settling hard in her chest and making it difficult to breathe. Carolyn keeps talking, but Eve’s not listening. She’s thinking about Bill. 

Two years ago, Eve had been on assignment in Berlin. They had a lead on the Demon, which found them tucked into a dingy club pulsing with electronic music. She’d checked the bathroom and emerged, scouring the room to reconnect with Bill. She hadn’t been able to spot his stupid fedora in the crowd, so she’d turned to the nearest door and stepped into an alley, cool air hitting her face.

That’s when she saw him. Face down, in a pool of blood. Multiple stab wounds on his chest, no DNA or sign of anyone around. Eve had been devastated.

It had also instilled in her a very real fear of leaving her daughter without a mother. 

“Eve?” Carolyn’s voice draws her back in. “Did you hear me?”

“Um,” Eve says. “No. Sorry. I was just… thinking about Bill.” Carolyn, who had been moments from reprimanding her, closes her mouth and nods. Elena shifts in the corner, and Kenny looks at the floor. Eve clears her throat. “What were you saying?”

“Our witness. His name is Hugo Turner, and he’s in holding at an undisclosed safe house at the moment. We need you to get as much information out of him as you can.” Carolyn looks Eve up and down. “You’ll also be part of his security detail.”

Her first real security job. Excitement twists through Eve, reminding her of the days when she’d been married to Niko, grasping at any straw from work that would have her. Now, though, the excitement comes with a sticky bitterness — babysitting a witness would most likely mean she wouldn’t be spending much time with Villanelle or Antonia.

She tells Carolyn she’ll do it, and after she gets the information, she slips into the hallway and heads for the bathroom, dialing Villanelle’s number.

“Hello!” Villanelle’s voice greets her, high pitched and loud. “Antonia, _ prekrati eto! _ ”

“ _ s"yesh' meny _ a!” Antonia retorts, and Eve barely hears it because then Villanelle is firing off an angry batch of Russian too fast for Eve to even begin to keep up with. There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line, and Eve waits, finding her own stall in the bathroom and sitting on the toilet seat. Finally, Villanelle lets out a breath, “Eve, sorry. Your daughter is getting on my nerves today.”

“Our daughter,” Eve reminds her, fighting a smile.

Villanelle laughs. “Yes. I am starting to regret that, actually.” Eve knows she doesn’t mean it, but she instantly thinks of her earlier conversation with Elena, adding it to her mental list of reasons to worry about the current state of her marriage. “How are you? How is work?”

Eve chews her lip. She doesn’t know how Villanelle does it — whenever Villanelle gets called in and pulled away from their family, she seems undisturbed, like she’s accepted it as a fact of life. She’ll leave late in the evening, pressing a kiss to Eve’s lips as goodbye. Maybe it’s the fights she used to get into with the ex-husband that have Eve hesitating to tell Villanelle about her new duty. 

It doesn’t seem hard for her, yet for Eve it’s one of the most difficult things in the world.

“Just,” she starts, sighing. “I got assigned to a new project at work that’s going to… keep me.”

“Keep you,” Villanelle repeats. “In what way?”

“I don’t know how long it’s gonna last, but I think I’m going to be a bit sparse in the upcoming weeks.” The words come out in a rush.

“That’s fine,” Villanelle says. “I will become a dictator in our home and whip our very  _ naughty _ child into shape.” There is another sound on the other end of the line, a muffled shriek and a cacophony of laughter that Eve recognizes as belonging to Antonia. 

“Please don’t kill her.”

“I cannot make that promise,” Villanelle responds. “Are you excited about the project?”

Eve thinks back to what Elena said to her.  _ Just tell her _ . Her leg bounces with anxiety, until finally she says, “Yeah, actually. I’m doing some very classified stuff, so I finally feel like… I feel like my bosses are finally recognizing what I can do.” It’s not the full truth. It’s barely hedging into the full truth, but it’s enough for right now.

“Eve! This is fantastic! We will have to celebrate.”

“Celebrate? It’s not like it’s a promotion or anything.”

“Bullshit,” Villanelle fires back, and Eve lets out a laugh. “Besides, I do not need a celebration to have cake. When are you going to be back?”

Warmth fills Eve’s chest. She wants to go home right now, tuck herself into Villanelle’s arms and feel the pure acceptance that she’s only getting a hint of through the phone. “Not tonight,” she says. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“And I you,” Villanelle says back. “I might have to go out as well, but I will just take the insect to Dasha.” There’s a pause. “Try to be extra excellent and do what you must do very quickly, okay?”

“Okay,” Eve agrees.

“We must finish what we started this morning as soon as possible.”

No argument there. Eve presses her thighs together a bit as she remembers. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Is this bothering you?” Villanelle’s voice drops. “I cannot wait to fuck you, Eve.”

“Bye, dork,” Eve says, pressing the end button before Villanelle can say anything else. She feels relieved, both because Villanelle was not upset at all when she told her she had to stay late, but also because she’s one step closer to telling Villanelle the truth about what she actually does. It feels like progress. She wants to hear the acceptance in Villanelle’s voice, she wants to share the excitement about this new job with her  _ wife _ , for fuck’s sake.

She will. 

Eve stops by the basement on the way out, where a man who looks entirely too young to be working the secure equipment locker gives her a gun. He refreshes her on how to load it, the differences between this one and the one she was trained on, and Eve tucks it into a holster on her waist, already feeling more comfortable. 

Elena and Kenny stay behind, and Eve heads out to the safe house after making several stops in case she’s being tailed. It’s procedure. A man sits outside of the building, dressed like a runner and hunched over as if he’s dealing with a cramp, but when Eve walks up to him and gives him a nod, he nods back. He discreetly hands her a key, and then Eve is inside the dense apartment complex and walking up the stairs to apartment 512.

She lets herself in.

There’s another guard inside, but sitting on the couch is a young man who can’t be more than twenty-five, eye sockets hollowed out and hair hanging limply on his forehead. He looks like he hasn’t changed in days, dressed in a rumpled Oxford and slacks that look too posh for just sitting around the apartment. Eve regrets instantly that she didn’t think to bring anything for him, but there’s no use wondering about it now.

He looks up at her when she comes in, instantly on alert. “You’re MI6?”

“Yes,” Eve answers. “Eve Polastri.” Legally, she’s no longer attached to her ex-husband’s name, but she uses it during work mostly because it makes her feel like she has an alter ego. Eve Park at home with her wife and child, Eve Polastri the secret agent, interrogating witnesses. 

She’s still not used to referring to herself as an  _ agent _ , but that’s what she is. She extends a hand to the man, and he shakes it. “Hugo. Though, I guess you already know that.”

“Yeah,” Eve says again, taking a seat across from the couch. The room is sparse, just a couch, side chair, and a coffee table. A bedroom and small kitchenette. “Sorry about all this.” She gestures at the room.

“Are you kidding?” Hugo sits straighter and gives her a smile. “I couldn’t dream of better accommodations. Thank you, English government, for your incredible hospitality.”

Eve waits, deciding she doesn’t like him. “Let’s just get into what happened,” she says, attempting to push the conversation in the right direction. “Can you tell me as much as you can remember?”

Hugo holds her gaze a long moment. He leans back into the couch, resting his hands on his thighs. “Sure. Someone killed my father in the middle of the day. While he was standing right next to me. We were in Vienna. Now MI6 thinks I’m safe in an apartment from someone who could  _ kill someone without them even knowing _ . Also, I’m doing swell, so thank you for asking.”

Eve writes all of this down. She ignores the snark. “You told first responders that you saw the killer.”

“I saw the only person who even came remotely near us,” he corrects. “Like I said, I have no clue who killed him or how they managed to. Bloody brilliant, if you ask me.”

“Let’s start there.” Eve smiles tightly. “What did the person look like? Man or woman?”

“She was blonde. White. One of those girls who looks like she would pay too much for blow.” Off Eve’s confused expression, he explains, “Like those girls who stumble into bad neighborhoods and don’t even realize they’re in danger. She looked inconspicuous in every single way, except she was stunning.”

“Stunning?” Eve looks up from her notes. It makes sense — a classic predator would blend in by standing out. 

“Blonde, great rack, etcetera,” Hugo drawls. “Listen, is there anyway you could get me, I don’t know, a room at a hotel?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Eve’s already planning on not forwarding that request onto Carolyn, instead thinking about the Demon. Stunning, blonde… “Anything else you can remember?”

Hugo shrugs. Then, he lights up, like he just got a great idea. “Actually, I might remember more if I had better accommodations.”

“You can’t just— That’s not going to happen.” Eve shouldn’t be surprised.

Hugo leans forward, scooting to the edge of the couch. He’s giving her a charming smile, putting a hand on her knee, and does he think he’s doing something right now? His hair is greasy, several days without a wash, and he’s got stubble patched across his jaw. He says, “C’mon, Eve. My back requires a certain level of give in a mattress, you know?”

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning in, too. “But you should know that I’m married.” Hugo makes a  _ so what _ motion with his head. Eve adds, “To a woman.”

And at the very least, Hugo seems to respect that. He leans back. “Her gain, I suppose.” He puts his hands behind his head. “But my memory’s still foggy. Come back when we’re heading to a hotel.”

So that’s why Eve finds herself standing in the hallway outside of the apartment on the phone with Carolyn, who is very against the idea of moving Hugo at this time, so soon after the hit, but admits to Eve that any more information will be a tremendous help to their investigation. The Demon hasn’t given them anything to work with for  _ years _ . They might not have a chance like this ever again.

Finally, Carolyn sighs. “I’ll arrange something closeby. Expect a text with the details.” The line goes dead, and Eve looks up and down the hallway outside the apartment, letting out a breath. She can do this. She’ll just transport Hugo… her phone pings with an address. Okay, she just needs to get him three miles down the road. Easy enough.

It’s dark by the time they’ve got everything arranged. Eve tells Hugo, “It’s time,” and the younger man gives her a crooked grin, glad to be rid of this place. Eve and he walk down the stairs to the underground carpark, and trailing behind them is Ben the MI6 security guard. He presses a button on his keys, making a sleek black sedan chirp from the otherside of the underground lot. They’re almost twenty feet away from it when there’s a shattering sound from their left, near the door, and then a beat later—

The lot plunges into pitch darkness.

Three things happen too quickly for Eve to register: Hugo bolts, leaving Eve’s side and forcing her to stumble blindly after him as her eyes get used to the darkness. There’s the muffled  _ fwoop _ of a silenced gunshot, and Eve slams to her knees, hiding behind a car. And finally, as the assailant walks confidently around the back of the car, Eve blindly fires her gun at the dark mass on the other end of the lot.

Not the first time she’s shot a gun, but the first time in a  _ while _ . The other thing? She’s never actually hit a human person before. It’s always been paper targets, dummies, blank rounds. She knows she doesn’t hit hard flesh. She can see in the dimness a slender frame, dressed head to toe in a leather motorcycle outfit, including helmet. A hand flies to her upper arm as she flees, and Eve turns the other way. One. Two Three.

Eve breathes.

“Hey! Stop!” Hugo’s voice, toward where the assailant went. Eve scrambles to her feet and fires her gun three more times, but the assassin as Hugo on a motorbike, skidding off toward the entrance. 

In moments, they are gone.

.

Eve spends most of the evening telling her side of the story over and over again. Ben the security guard was shot dead, there was blood belonging to the assailant that matched the DNA they have for her on file at the scene, and Hugo is disastrously missing.

Missing, but not dead. That’s the lighthouse in Eve’s head, pulling her closer and closer to shore. Hugo isn’t dead yet, so that means whoever her killer needs him alive. It’s the one thing that’s keeping Carolyn’s mouth shut when it comes to suspending Eve, though Eve can tell from the furtive, annoyed looks Carolyn keeps giving her, her boss is rather put out for being called back into work in the middle of the night.

“There’s CCTV,” Carolyn tells her eventually, and Eve fights every urge to ask  _ why didn’t you say anything sooner _ .

She’s mad for a moment, before she remembers how dark it was. “The lights were off.”

“From across the street,” Carolyn adds. “I’ll send it to you as soon as it’s acquired.”

It’s almost six in the morning when Eve can finally go home. She’s exhausted, almost calls a car home instead of taking the tube, but toughs it out. It’s another hour before she’s stepping through her front door, and she expects to walk into a chaotic, messy morning, but her house is… Silent.

“Ant?” she calls out, taking off her coat and sliding off her shoes. “Antonia? Vee?”

Still nothing. She walks to the kitchen and finds a note —  _ Eve, in case you are back, Antonia is with Dasha. I got a late call. Dasha will take her to school and pick her up, if necessary. Love, V. xoxo _

She catches herself smiling when her phone chirps. She opens a message from Carolyn and sure enough, it’s the CCTV. The video is grainy, and Carolyn’s sent a message saying  _ she enters at 3:12 _ , so Eve scrolls through the video to the timestamp, only to stop dead well before it.

There, in the video—

Is Villanelle.

It’s her pitch black Audi that pulls into a space on the side of the road, and her honey-blonde head that ducks out of it. She’s wearing a bright orange coat, an unmistakable favorite of Villanelle’s, and though Eve can’t really see her face clearly, it’s definitely her. She crosses the street and walks up the stoop of an apartment two doors down from the safehouse Hugo was in.

Almost two minutes after Villanelle goes inside, our motorcyclist zooms down the street and into the underground lot.

It’s nothing. No visual on the killer. But it is  _ something _ in regards to Eve’s marriage.

The random late nights, the overcompensation in the bedroom — everything crashes into Eve, hard. She should’ve guessed. She stares at the building on the grainy CCTV and mentally kicks herself. It didn’t make sense for a woman in her twenties to fall for Eve in the first place, and it doesn’t make sense that she wouldn’t eventually get bored.

Eve grabs her phone, dialing Elena. Elena answers, a muffled  _ hallo? _ and Eve says immediately, “I think she’s cheating on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. please forgive eve's insecurities. she's just a milf who is rightfully worried but has made an extremely wrong assumption. 
> 
> .
> 
> twitter is @theweedyke ! come chat/yell at me to keep writing this.
> 
> please check out my bio on twitter to donate/spread awareness of petitions and organizations that are gonna help out blm causes and people on the front lines.
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! xoxo


	4. fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - slight groping
> 
> this chapter brought to you by villanelle getting way too comfy with domesticity and not wanting to give it up <3

Turns out, driving a motorcycle when your passenger happens to also be your hostage is not so easy. One would think the prisoner would recognize the dangers associated with motorcycle crashes and  _ stop fidgeting or fighting back _ , but no, this particular hostage has tried to shake Villanelle one too many times since they left that garage. She had cuffed his hands around her, but is starting to think that might’ve been a bad idea. She is not planning on using the bike for much longer, just another mile before she drives into yet another lot and picks up a sedan waiting for her, but Hugo has other plans.

He’s screaming, for one, which does not look good when Villanelle stops at a red light next to a woman and two children in the car. Briefly, she thinks about Antonia sitting in the backseat with Eve, seeing something like this. A helmet-less man handcuffed to a very sexy motorcycle driver while screaming his throat raw.

“Help!” Hugo croaks to the woman, who is alarmed more than anything. The light turns to green, thank  _ fuck _ , and Villanelle speeds off and takes the next side street, just to make sure the housewife doesn’t get any ideas. She doesn’t— the car continues on while Villanelle revs forward.

Hugo goes physical next, and Villanelle is deciding she really, really wants to kill him. He squeezes her as tight as he can, digging a knuckle hard into her abdomen, but Villanelle has done enough ab workouts her entire life to withstand whatever this is. They are a single block away from the second parking garage when Hugo puts his hands on her tits.

It’s a reflex. She jerks to the right and the bike spins, tilting dangerously to the ground and sliding across the concrete. Villanelle and Hugo are a tangled, rolling heap until Villanelle’s helmet cracks against the curb. The universe, it seems, would like to keep Hugo alive for now. She imagines his head hitting the concrete, splitting open at the force of the blow, blood spilling, perhaps the most gorgeous image in the world (besides Eve).

“Do you know,” she huffs, kneeing Hugo between the legs, forcing a  _ oof _ from his lips, followed by a pathetic groan, “how many deaths per year there are from motorcycle crashes?”

“No,  _ fuck _ ,” he whines.

Villanelle picks the lock on his handcuffs and rolls away from him, taking her first deep breath since they’d crashed. She tears off her helmet, her hair falling out of its previously tidy braid, and gives Hugo one of her best glares. “It is a lot.”

She stands, reaching down to drag Hugo to his feet. His wrists are bleeding where the cuffs dug in, and he looks like parts of him were set on fire where there are skids in his nice shirt. Villanelle doesn’t have to look at it longer than a few seconds to know how much a shirt like that costs. While she doesn’t usually entertain  _ why _ she’s doing any of this, sometimes she likes to guess. It is her own kind of practice, how else is she doing to get better and better at reading people, knowing them?

“Start talking,” she tells Hugo, shoving him up the stairs to the second floor of the car park. She says it because it’s what people usually say in movies to drive the story forward.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about,” he mutters. He glances back at her, stumbling a few feet forward when it does, and gives her a onceover. “Hot  _ and _ crazy, huh?”

“No,” Villanelle says, flashing a smile. “Just hot.” She shoves him extra hard, and this time, when he stumbles, he falls onto his palms.

She has the key to the car waiting for them, pressing the  _ unlock _ button as she considers Hugo. “Promise to be quiet?”

“Promise not to kill me?” He fires back, wiping his hands uselessly on his shirt. They are alone in this garage, and Villanelle wishes she  _ could _ kill him. But if she did, her employers would not be too happy. For shame. 

“I cannot make that promise.” She decides on being vague, opening the backdoor for him. “But your options are to behave and sit in the back, or be in the trunk. Either way, you are still a hostage.”

He grimaces, nodding a bit as he climbs into the backseat. Villanelle gets in, too, turning on the car and backing out without more than a single glance at Hugo sitting behind her. She hates this position — it is incredibly vulnerable and they have a bit of a drive ahead of them. If Hugo were a smarter person, he would take this to his advantage, but he only stares out the window a bit forlornly. Accepting what’s happening.

Villanelle admires that. Just a bit.

They drive for about forty-five minutes. They are going to a private apartment rented by whoever; Villanelle doesn’t care much about the specifics of it all. Villanelle leaves the car a block away from the building, and soon enough, she unlocks the door to a tiny studio apartment, complete with two chairs, a laptop plugged into the wall, and nothing else. 

Hugo rolls his shoulders, sighing. “Somehow, this is worse.”

Villanelle silently agrees with him. She is sure happy she’s not staying here for longer than necessary. There is no telling how long Hugo will be here. But that is his problem.

She sits down in one of the chairs, after spending a moment to rearrange them so they are sitting face to face. Hugo watches her, and once she’s sat, he lifts his arms up in futility, grumbling under his breath as he goes to sit across from her. She leans back, crossing her legs and tucking her hands into her armpits. She looks at him. 

Villanelle is not an interrogator. She has done it only a few times, doesn’t usually have a lot of patience when she knows she will not be satisfied, in the end. Sitting around and waiting for a man like Hugo to tell her what she needs to know with no possibility of getting to kill him after she gets what she needs sounds like the most boring thing in the word. The most. Worse than when Antonia learns something new from Wikipedia and recites the entire article to her and, according to Eve, it’s just polite to sit there and listen.

Hugo shifts uncomfortably. “Um. Is there any food?”

Food would be nice. For her, not for him. Still, she makes a little show of glancing toward the kitchenette by the door. It’s empty. She turns back to Hugo. “No.”

“Okay.” He leans back, palms pressing on top of his knees. His fingers drum against his pants. He has a nasty cut on his forehead, where blood trickles down his temple, and Villanelle counts the seconds it takes for a particularly round drop to fall from Hugo’s jaw.

Eight seconds.

When it falls, Villanelle lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark. It is her Konstantin expression, and it has Hugo looking positively wary of her. 

“Do you know who I am?” she asks him.

He nods. “You killed my father.”

Villanelle does not verbally confirm this, in case he is somehow wearing a wire, but she nods just the same. Hugo nods back. “You are now in charge of his company,” she presses. She doesn’t really know how this all works, but according to Antonia, it is the effort that counts.

“I mean, I will be. Yeah.” Hugo shifts in his seat.

Villanelle leans forward suddenly, uncrossing her legs, and Hugo flinches. She says, “My employer seems to think you have information that could help us.”

“Probably,” he agrees. “We have information on everything.”

She wonders if he has information on her. Not that she would be displeased, if he did, but she wonders what the official files say about her, what kinds of things have been hidden and what, if any, has been highlighted.

“We are not going to kill you,” she tells him. This is not turning out to be an interrogation at all. “We would like access to your information.” She reaches down and grabs the laptop, opening it. It is unlocked, already connected to a random wifi signal. She turns it around, hands it to him.

“So, you’re not going to kill me,” Hugo repeats, taking it. “But if I don’t give it to you, you’ll kill me.”

“I will hurt you a lot first,” she says helpfully. “To change your mind.”

“Right.” He starts typing into the computer, and Villanelle tries not to look like she’s watching him do it. “I can’t get into everything from here, a lot of it is offline on the closed network within our offices.”

“Get what you can,” she tells him. She pulls out a small harddrive from her pocket. Hands that over, too. “And put it on this.”

He nods, eyes glued to the screen. It is the same way Eve does it, when she is very fascinated by something or has been spending too many hours in her office. Villanelle shakes that from her head, just as her phone starts vibrating in her pocket. She thought she’d turned that off, for the day, but as she goes to dismiss the call, she smiles.

“Hey partner,” she greets, standing up. She doesn’t think about the possibility of Hugo yelling after her. She glances at him to find him staring at her, almost paler than he had been. She winks at him; he jumps and goes back to the computer.

“Hey,” Eve says on the other end of the line. “You’re working again?”

“Yes. We are very busy right now, there are a lot of things to take advantage of.” Villanelle leans against the wall. Eve sounds like she’s on their couch, maybe lying down. She hopes this deal with Hugo does not take long. “I think I might be in the office all evening.”

“Shoot,” Eve breathes. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” Villanelle says. When there isn’t a response from the other end, Villanelle lets her mind wander from Hugo for longer than a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eve says, too quickly. “Just… thinking about a lot of things. Some weird stuff happened at work today, and I wanted to… y’know. Cuddle.”

“Oh, you are so smitten,” Villanelle teases quietly. “When I am not at work I will make fun of you for this.”

There’s a laugh, and Villanelle is glad she’d made it happen. “No, you won’t.”

She won’t. It is never worth it to make fun of Eve, only an indulgence. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Love you.”

“You, too,” she whispers, before hanging up. She would’ve liked to say the full phrase, but Hugo doesn’t need to know about these parts of her. No one on this side of her life does.

While Hugo keeps typing, Villanelle slips out of her jacket and assesses her damages. She would normally save this for after the job, but she knows her patience will run thin by the end of this. On her left arm, there’s a bloodied graze from where the agent’s bullet hit her. Villanelle probes at it, hissing when it stings in pain. It will need stitches. She doesn’t think about how she will explain that one to Eve.

“Hey.”

“What,” Hugo replies, not looking up.

“You know how to stitch?”

He looks up finally, not in fear but in something closer to simple reluctance. Finally, he nods. “Poorly.”

Great. Villanelle is not going home tonight  _ and _ she will have a bad-looking scar. 

Three and a half hours later, Villanelle has a badly stitched arm and the files have finished being copied into the harddrive. Hugo had explained it a bit more densely, going on about technology and how it worked, but all Villanelle had cut him off and said, “I don’t care,” because she didn’t.

Hugo sleeps on the floor in the corner while Villanelle sits near the door, watching him. Occasionally, she checks her phone, but there is nothing going on in the middle of the night. She blinks sleepily, but she is used to controlling herself, used to late nights such as this one and even more used to staying alert. A perk of growing up on the streets.

It is Konstantin who comes at eight in the morning.

She was not expecting him, but she smiles as she lets him in. “I did not think they would let you do something so important,” she says.

“Ha ha,” he teases. He squints at Hugo, still asleep on the floor. “This is him?”

“Yes. He is very annoying.”

Konstantin nods, before waking Hugo up. Hugo blinks at the two of them, recoiling from Konstantin and stumbling into Villanelle. She pushes him into Konstantin’s arms, laughing, and Konstantin tightens his grip on Hugo’s arm. “Right, then,” Hugo says, and sure, Konstantin is a scary looking man, but Villanelle thinks Hugo is overreacting. As they pass Villanelle, Hugo gives her a small salute. “Thanks for not killing me.”

“There is still time,” she says.

Villanelle gives Konstantin the harddrive.. “Let me know if there is anything fun on there about me,” she teases. He assures her he will.

Once they’re disappearing around the end of the hallway, Villanelle lets out a breath. Finally. Eve will be at work by now, but that is okay. It means she will be able to pick up Antonia from school, and they can get ice cream. It is the perfect conclusion to a very shitty night.

.

After a two hour nap, Villanelle stands outside the gate of Antonia’s school in a chic black suit with a turtleneck underneath it, hands tucked into her pockets. She always gets various types of looks when she’s here, mostly from the men, but occasionally from the other mothers, too. From the teachers as well, who watch Antonia run to her, wild hair bouncing chaotically.

Antonia lets out a childish squeal when Villanelle grabs her underneath the armpits and hoists her high into the air. It is their favorite game to play; Villanelle throws Antonia up and catches her on the way down.

“Look,” Antonia says, presenting Villanelle with a drawing. It is of three stick figures, one with yellow hair and a very pink dress. The other two have darker, thicker hair and no fun clothes.

“You got my dress just right,” Villanelle says, grabbing Antonia and pressing messy kisses against her cheek. Antonia pulls out of her grip, chirping, “Gross!”

“And Umma’s,” Antonia adds, pointing at Eve’s clothes.

“Yes,” Villanelle laughs, “Her clothes are so ugly.” She puts Antonia down, grabbing her hand, and they walk hand in hand the rest of the way home.

They spend the rest of the afternoon with Villanelle giving Antonia a piano lesson. Then, it’s another lesson in French, and Villanelle is thinking about what language to dive into next, now that Antonia can have almost full, intelligent conversations with her. She knows Russian, English, Spanish, and now French. Perhaps it is time for something harder.

She has a very beautiful dinner prepared by the time Eve walks into the door, actually home a bit early this evening compared to most. Villanelle is only wearing a robe when Eve walks into the kitchen, mouth dropping when she sees the food.

“Hello!” Villanelle chirps. 

Antonia sits at their table, scribbling out some drawings with crayons, and mimics Villanelle’s, “Hello!” with one of her own.

“Hi,” Eve laughs, shaking her head. “Am I forgetting an occasion?”

“Nope,” Villanelle says, popping the ‘p’. “I wanted to make food.” She puts down spatula she’d been using to taste her meat sauce, moving over to Eve and winding her arms around Eve’s waist. “I have not seen you since yesterday,” she murmurs, nosing against Eve’s throat. She kisses the skin there.

“Gross,” Antonia says, and Villanelle laughs. Eve moves away too soon, going over to sit at the table.

A long time ago, Villanelle never would’ve guessed she’d have all this. Not because she thought she could never get it, but because for a lot of her life, she assumed she’d never  _ want _ it. She slept with people all the time. She found them in all kinds of places, sometimes slept with them more than once, but when she met Eve… everything changed. She still, to this day, doesn’t know what it was about that woman on the beach other than everything. Everything about Eve had sucked her in.

It is the kind of “clicking” that happens in romantic comedies, or the most blatant example of love at first sight. Villanelle doesn’t selectively believe in either, but she does know that she is happy.

Which is saying a lot.

But Eve is acting weird. Her smile is forced, as she placates Antonia’s latest obsession, and she keeps glancing up at Villanelle in that way she does when she wants to talk about something. After years with Eve, Villanelle has learned to pick up on that sort of thing, even though Eve is usually very hard to read.

Villanelle shakes it off, grabbing a serving spoon and scooping some of her pasta onto three plates. A smaller one, for Antonia. 

She sets down hers and Eve’s, before sweeping Antonia’s crayons out of her hands and onto the floor in a very childish gesture. Antonia squeaks, “Hey!” and Eve laughs as Villanelle says, “Dinner is served.”

“So,” Eve says, a few bites in, “When did you get back today?”

“Almost ten.” It comes out muffled, as Villanelle has a mouthful of pasta between her lips. 

“Do anything interesting yesterday?”

Villanelle thinks about it. In her line of work, she supposes the past day could be considered interesting. “Sure,” she says, shrugging. “It is all just work.”

“Stayed in the office, then,” Eve says, and Villanelle can tell now that she’s digging for something.

What, Villanelle doesn’t know. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you want to talk about work?”

Something flashes in Eve’s eyes before she nods, gaze dropping to her food. “No, I’m just tired. Sorry for the third degree.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s just boring. I do not like talking about boring things.”

“School isn’t boring!” Antonia says helpfully. 

Villanelle points a finger at her. “That is where you and I disagree,” she tells Antonia, and whatever moment between Eve and her has passed. “Speaking of school,” Villanelle continues, “I heard a rumor.”

Antonia looks at her with wide eyes. “What’s a roomer?”

“That there is a little girl who likes to bite people.” Villanelle leans forward. “Do you know what happens to little girls who bite?”

“What?” Antonia’s voice is tiny. Rapt.

“They  _ die,”  _ Villanelle growls, going to tickle Antonia’s sides. Antonia yells, right as Eve says, “ _ Oh my god _ .” 

Villanelle stands and lifts Antonia in one movement, throwing the small girl over her shoulder, as tiny fists slam against her back. She catches Eve’s eye as she spins around, their daughter screaming, and then she stops and puts Antonia down. “For real,” she says. “No more biting. Okay?”

“But what if someone tries to grab me?”

“Then you lean in very close to them and tell them I am going to  _ kill them _ ,” and Villanelle is dead serious, but Eve bursts into laughter. Villanelle looks up and watches in awe, at the beautiful way Eve’s face lights up.

Villanelle pats Antonia’s chair. “C’mon. Finish.”

Antonia groans as they both return to their seats, and it’s later, after they’ve put Antonia to bed and Eve is doing the dishes and Villanelle is watching her, that Eve says, “You’re so good with her.”

“Children are not so hard,” Villanelle says. “Not like adults, anyway.”

“Oh, come on.” Eve stops doing the dishes and turns, leaning against the counter. Villanelle wants to step forward and press Eve against it, let her hands roam and their kisses grow heated, but Eve frowns at her. “Okay, so. I wasn’t snooping, but I saw that you…” She stops, chewing on her lip. “I saw that you weren’t at work. Yesterday. Sometimes I check our location sharing thing.”

“You were spying on me,” Villanelle says.

Eve shakes her head rapidly. “No! No, I wasn’t—”

“Relax,” Villanelle says, smiling. She steps closer to Eve, pressing hands to Eve’s hips. “I don’t mind.”

She leans in and gives Eve a soft, sweet kiss. She attempts to push Eve’s mouth open, beginning to slide a hand around Eve’s body to squeeze her ass, but Eve evades her, pulling back. “So, uh. Where were you?”

Villanelle looks at Eve. The truth is… The truth is hard. But Villanelle has no idea what Eve could be digging for, if she is even digging at all. She thinks back to her day, knowing she’d been several places yesterday that were not her office. Slowly, as if she’s treading in shark infested waters, Villanelle says, “I did go out for lunch. A meeting with a client.”

“A client,” Eve repeats. 

Villanelle nods. “I can call him now, if you want?” Because she thinks that’s what Eve wants. 

“No, no, it’s—” Eve lets out a breath, bringing a hand up to her hair and running it through her curls. Villanelle stands inches away, quietly buzzing underneath her skin with arousal. Willing to wait. “It’s fine,” Eve says finally, and when she looks at Villanelle again, Villanelle hopes it is to start kissing.

Eve leans in, pressing her lips against Villanelle’s, warm and inviting, but then her hand gravitates toward Villanelle’s upper arm and a sharp burst of pain reminds Villanelle of the badly stitched wound on her bicep. She pulls back before she reacts to the pain, shutting down. “Actually,” she murmurs, “I can finish the dishes. You go up to bed.”

“Really?” Eve looks her up and down, her hand still lightly on Villanelle’s arm, just a layer of fabric between her and a wound that could mean the end of their marriage. 

“Yes.” Villanelle kisses Eve softly, then smiles. Eventually, Eve nods, disappearing into her office like she does when she’s upset. After finishing the dishes, Villanelle stands outside of Eve’s door and leans against it, listening for anything on the other side of it. She could just imagine Eve leaning over a book, drowning in the methods behind a killer’s process. 

As Villanelle climbs the stairs, she feels a sort of stickiness in her chest. She wishes Eve could see how well  _ she _ can kill, knows Eve would be able to appreciate it if they weren’t involved. Eve’s hobby of studying killers had been one of the things Villanelle had fallen in love with, a deep part of her hoping that Eve would be able to see her, truly see her and accept her for what she is. 

She slips into the hall bathroom door and strips out of her shirt, finding a new bandage so she can redress the graze on her arm. It’ll scar, but by then she’ll be able to come up with some elaborate lie that will make sure Eve never thinks about it again.

Pressing an alcohol pad against it, she hisses, low under her breath.

“What’s that?”

Villanelle jumps, turning to find Eve standing in the doorway, watching her. She hadn’t even heard the door open, and she curses herself internally for letting her guard down, something she very rarely does. “Just—” she doesn’t have a lie ready  _ now _ , Eve, way to ruin the surprise. “It’s stupid.”

Eve walks in, grabbing at Villanelle’s hand and pulling it away from the wound. She lets out a breath when she sees the stitched wound, the skin around it red and angry. “What happened?” Eve immediately falls into the caretaker role, and Villanelle internally admits it’s nice, for once, to be fussed over.

Except her improvisational skills are failing her. “I ran into—” she stops, because that is  _ not _ the way she should’ve started this, but she’s already halfway through digging the hole “—I was at a studio, and the owner was remodeling. There was a piece of metal, I think.” She waves a hand vaguely. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“This is stitched,” says Eve, dabbing at it with alcohol. “You went to the hospital and didn’t tell me?”

It sounds really, really bad. Villanelle nods, sighing. “Yes.”

“Okay, so what we’re  _ not _ doing is lying about stuff like this,” Eve starts, grabbing the new bandage. “I don’t like it when you keep things from me.”

It’d been a problem, early in their relationship, when Eve realized that Villanelle wasn’t telling her half the things she did. Villanelle had panicked, worried she wouldn’t be able to lead the double life she wanted, but all it took to resolve their problem was a more solid alibi for her life and her job. 

“I know,” she says, as Eve finishes. “It seemed so small.”

“Almost getting tetanus is not small,” Eve argues, and her bad mood seems to have shifted. Villanelle grimaces, not because of the teasing, but because if she really does have tetanus, she’ll be pissed. A government agent will be asking for it, then.

“I will get the shot,” Villanelle promises, hoping it’s a good enough compromise.

Eve frowns. “They didn’t give you one at the hospital?”

Villanelle really has to get better at being off the cuff. “Yes,” she says slowly. She puts on a dramatic expression, face falling into the right places like a well worn mask. “I don’t know. I was in so much pain.”

That makes Eve roll her eyes, and Villanelle knows she’s out of the dog house. For now, at least. 

.

They are at the park again. This time, in broad daylight, with Antonia running around the playground and screaming intermittently. Konstantin looks handsome, at certain angles, but today he looks hollowed, the skin around his eyes dark and tired. “That information you were looking for,” he says, voice quiet. “I got it.”

Villanelle watches him pull an envelope out of his coat. “You read my file? Does it say I am sensational?”

“No. There’s… an MI6 agent assigned to you. She’s been on the case for a while now.” He looks at her. 

Villanelle grins. “They are obsessed with me.”

“No,” Konstantin says again. “This is not good.”

“They aren’t going to catch me,” she says, breezy.

“They might,” he says, but then Antonia is running over, drawing both of their attentions.

“Look, Mama.” She holds her hands clasped together, hiding something in her palms. She opens them, revealing a butterfly flapping its wings. It doesn’t move when she opens her hands, sitting there peacefully.

“Very cool,” Villanelle says, distracted. She is thinking about MI6 spending hours and hours going after her, devoting time and energy chasing something — some _ one _ — they will never catch. She smiles.

Konstantin glances at her, then leans in close to Antonia. “You know what this means?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “ _ Ty yemu nravish'sya _ .”

Antonia lights up. “Really?” She pokes at the butterfly, but it immediately flies away. She frowns, before dropping to her knees to poke at the dirt. Villanelle watches her, then turns to Konstantin, looking at him expectedly.

“I have information on the agent.” His voice is just a whisper. Konstantin glances down at his envelope. “Do you want it?”

“Give it,” she whines, already reaching for the envelope. He relents, handing it over, and Villanelle rips it open and casually reads over the information. She goes from idly irritated to stone cold in a matter of seconds, reading a single name over and over again. “Who else knows about this?” 

She looks up at Konstantin to find him watching her carefully. “Just us.” He looks at Antonia, and Villanelle can just imagine him comparing her to the photo in the envelope.

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes. For now. She is apparently very good.”

_ Of course she is _ , Villanelle wants to snap. Actually, she wants to scream it. This woman is stellar at her job, but not good enough to see what is right under her nose. But neither is Villanelle, it seems. She holds up the photo again, but Antonia stands up, suddenly, and grabs it from her. “Umma!” she squeaks, before holding it back to Villanelle. “She is very pretty.”

“Yes,” Villanelle murmurs, staring at Eve’s face in the picture. “She is.”

“This is not going to stay unknown for very long,” Konstantin warns her, treading softly.

“I know.”

“You’ve got to figure out what to do.”

“I  _ know _ ,” she snaps, sliding the file back in the envelope. Konstantin stands up, and Antonia takes the opportunity to slam into his legs, bouncing expectantly. He looks at Villanelle, asking permission, and she nods tightly. He lifts Antonia up into his arms, laughing along with her, but casts Villanelle a worried glance. 

Villanelle’s mouth presses into a thin line. She will have to do something about this, but as long as she stays in this park, things are okay. Things will be okay, she tells herself over and over again. Normally, she is very good at thinking things like this through, but her mind is drawing a blank. She is not readily thinking of a solution that doesn’t tear their family apart. Eve wants her, her job wants MI6. It’s simple. Eliminate the obstruction. Eliminate Eve, except… she can’t even begin to imagine what her life would be like without her.

Konstantin notices something over Villanelle’s shoulder, and Villanelle turns to find Eve standing there. Eve says, “Hi.”

Villanelle puts on a mask, grinning madly, and says, “Hi!”

This is going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the russian is roughly -- that the butterfly likes her or some shit. google translate is my friend and i'm sorry to any people who actually speak russian. 
> 
> .
> 
> twitter is @theweedyke ! come chat/yell at me to keep writing this.
> 
> please check out my bio on twitter to donate/spread awareness of petitions and organizations that are gonna help out blm causes and people on the front lines.
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! xoxo


	5. shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve decides, that in this moment, the world cannot expect her to take responsibility for her actions. She’s high on pure, instinctual rage, a feeling that hasn’t twisted through her since Bill died. Nothing is stopping her from breaking up whatever the fuck this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys, this chapter was tough. i'm trying so hard to hit the right emotional beats and it's just... not happening. apologies in advance, but i'm doing my best.

“There’s no way she’s cheating with him,” Elena says, voice low and cautious, like she’s stepping out on a wire between two skyscrapers — a shaking, tremulous step into the ether, unsure how Eve’s going to react to seeing Villanelle, sitting on a park bench with a man Eve’s never seen before.

Truthfully, Eve isn’t even sure how she feels about this, either. She’s felt a lot of things since she called Elena the night before, chief amongst all of it betrayal, then fear, then utter helplessness. She doesn’t know what to  _ do _ with this information now that she has it, but holds fast to repeatedly reminding herself that it’s not true until she sees, with her own two eyes, Villanelle with someone else.

But this man and her do seem awfully familiar.

Eve and Elena are standing on the sidewalk, a pointed black fence and a stretch of grass between them and a playground. Antonia runs around with the other children, and Villanelle sits on a park bench, dressed obnoxiously in designer clothing that anyone else would worry about getting dirty, and sitting extremely close to a large man.

Okay, it would be unfair to say there isn’t a doubt in Eve’s head. First of all, this man is, well, a  _ man _ . She hasn’t seen Villanelle express interest in men the entire time she’s known her, and while Villanelle is steadfastly against labels, she doesn’t hide her appreciation for women. It’s an aspect of their relationship Eve has always appreciated — she and Villanelle can walk down the same street and tease each other about attractive women walking by, both of them knowing it would be the other in their bed that night.

This man has broad shoulders, a gut of comfort, and salt and pepper hair. Villanelle is into older, that’s for sure, but something about him doesn’t sit right with Eve. But she can’t tell whether she’s projecting and seeing what she  _ hopes _ to be true, or if Villanelle would genuinely not be into it.

“He’s not…  _ bad _ looking,” Eve tries, before it occurs to her that if Villanelle were to turn and look at the street for more than a moment, she would see Elena and Eve standing there, looking out of place in their work clothes.

“He’s not you, Eve.” Elena grabs her by the shoulder, forcing her gaze away just as Villanelle leans into the man, placing an affectionate elbow on his shoulder as he laughs.

They had followed Villanelle for most of the day. It had been Elena’s idea, suggesting the night before that they just do some light snooping, take advantage of the constant location sharing rule Eve and Villanelle have with each other, and they’d spent the better part of the morning trailing behind Villanelle as she went from designer to designer. Elena had remarked on the ease of Villanelle’s life, compared to the dullness of Eve’s, and defensive, Eve had brushed it off.

They have different interests, is all. Villanelle’s happened to be designer clothing, while Eve’s is a bit more… criminal-leaning.

Elena grabs Eve by the shoulders, turning her full around. “Eve,” she says, “Just breathe, okay?”

“I’m breathing.”

“What’s going in your head right now?”

A lot. A lot is happening in Eve’s head. She’s in overdrive, thinking about overhauling her entire life and leaving Villanelle in the dust. They have a kid, for fuck’s sake. That, at least, had been the only saving grace when she’d gotten divorced the first time. “Oh  _ fuck _ ,” she mutters. “I have to get divorced again.” 

“No! No, you don’t.” Elena snaps her fingers in Eve’s face. “You don’t. We have absolutely no evidence. And I’m going to give you the same advice I gave you before — just  _ talk _ to her.”

Eve glances back toward Villanelle, who now stands as Antonia runs to her. She opens her arms wide, but Antonia doesn’t even look at her, instead barrelling right into the man’s legs. He laughs, Eve can hear it from here, a huge, obnoxious sound, and picks her up with ease.

Her face must change, because Elena follows her gaze and says, “Oh, shit.”

Yeah. Oh shit just about covers it. 

Eve decides, as she rips herself from Elena’s grip on her shoulders and starts toward Villanelle, that in this moment, the world cannot expect her to take responsibility for her actions. She’s high on pure, instinctual rage, a feeling that hasn’t twisted through her since Bill died. She stomps to the opening in the fence, treading hard on the grass and counting the steps it takes to get over to the playground. She can hear Elena shuffling after her, but nothing is stopping her from breaking up whatever the  _ fuck _ this is.

Because yeah, okay, Eve will take Elena’s advice. She’ll talk to Villanelle. She’ll say, “Hi!” in a bright, too cherry tone of voice, and Villanelle will turn to her and know exactly what the fuck is going down.

Except when she  _ does _ say hi, Villanelle turns and says, “Eve!” right back. If there’s panic in her voice, Eve doesn’t hear it, but she  _ does _ catch Villanelle’s gaze flit over to the man’s for a brief second, before she’s stepping forward and giving Eve a kiss.

The man puts Antonia down, because when she sees Eve she starts struggling in his arms, and she runs over to Eve and says, “Umma!”

It’s not the accusation session Eve was hoping for. She lets Villanelle’s lips graze her cheek, lets Villanelle keep an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and together, they turn to the man and Villanelle says, “Eve, this is Konstantin.”

“Hello,” the man-- _ Konstantin _ —says, offering Eve a beefy hand.

She shakes it, just as Villanelle says proudly, “Konstantin, this is my wife, Eve.”

There had been a time when she’d cherished being called Villanelle’s wife. For the first year of their marriage, Villanelle told everyone who would listen about Eve, introducing her even to coffee baristas in ways that made Eve’s cheeks red with embarrassment. Now, though, Eve realizes she’s made a critical mistake by even coming over here at all, and the word just grates at her.

“I’ve heard many things,” Konstantin tells her, and Eve hears his accent now, softening the same sounds Villanelle’s does. “Good things,” he adds, “though we have missed you at the office parties.”

It all hits Eve at once. He’s Villanelle’s  _ boss _ , which obviously doesn’t rule out the affair, but makes it that much less likely. She looks Konstantin up and down, taking in his oversized coat and overall outfit… It’s not exactly high fashion. Eve’s brow crinkles, and she says, “I wasn’t aware there were… office parties.”

“Because there haven’t been.” Villanelle slides her arm from Eve’s shoulders, dropping into a squat so she can grab Antonia by the waist and hoist her over her shoulder. Antonia screams, pummelling tiny fists into Villanelle’s back, as Villanelle says, “I keep telling him about the morale benefits, but he says they are a waste of time.”

Villanelle nudges Konstantin affectionately, and he swats at her hand. There’s an obvious familiarity between them, and Eve can see now, up close, the lack of tension behind it. 

Thankfully, Elena materializes next to Eve. “Hi. Everyone. Villanelle. Ant.”

Villanelle groans. “Please, not the name.”

“I like it!” Antonia says, still on Villanelle’s shoulders.

Eve doesn’t know what to say, or rather, can’t make her mouth form words. She turns to Elena, eyes wide in what she hopes is a plea for help, and Elena smiles artificially, leaning into Eve as she says, “Eve and I were just out on lunch.”

“This is pretty far from your office,” Villanelle comments, raising a brow. She gives Eve a look, one that says,  _ is everything okay _ ?

Eve nods. “We should be heading back.” To Konstantin, she adds, “It was really great meeting you.”

“Likewise.” Inquisitive, pale eyes twitch over her face. Regardless of his position in Villanelle’s life, Eve doesn’t like the unsettling way he exists, expression constantly on the verge of twisting into anger or laughter.

“Oh, great timing,” Elena adds, and Eve turns to find her reading something on her phone. “We actually  _ do _ have to get back.” Barely containing her excitement, she grabs Eve by the arm and starts tugging.

“Don’t steal her for too long,” Villanelle laments, finally putting Antonia on the ground. The girl runs up to Eve and Eve mindlessly leans down to kiss her head, smoothing her unruly hair down. Villanelle steps up to her next, expecting a kiss, but Eve gives her the cheek at the last second, a weak smile on her face, just as Elena tugs even harder.

“Come on, you’ll have your whole life to love on your stupidly adorable family.” Eve lets Elena pull her away, turning from Konstantin and Villanelle after a quiet goodbye.

Villanelle calls after them, “We are adorable, thank you.”

“I was talking about Antonia!” Elena calls back, and Villanelle laughs, saying something to Konstnatin that neither Eve or Elena hear, because Elena pulls Eve in close and says, “Hugo isn’t dead.”

“Well, yeah,” Eve says, mind spinning in a dramatic one-eighty from possible adultery back to work. “We haven’t found his body, but there’s no way he’s alive.”

“No, he is.” Elena shows Eve her phone, where a single message reads,  _ Witness has resurfaced. Come in immediately. _ “Carolyn’s got a way with words. She’s succinct. I like it.”

A million things are happening in Eve’s head right now, but at the top of the list sits a single question. She squeezes her eyes closed, shaking her head, and asks, “Why the hell is Carolyn ‘MILF’ in your phone?”

.

“I want all of it. I want armored cars, security details, and constant surveillance. Nothing less, or I walk.”

Hugo Turner sits in an interrogation room in an MI6 basement in an undisclosed location, Eve and Elena standing behind a double mirror watching him make demands out of Carolyn Martens. If Eve’s learned anything in the years she’s worked with the woman, she knows Carolyn doesn’t take demands lightly, if at all. 

Elena, on the other hand, seems thrilled. “She can’t say no,” she whispers, shaking her head. “Fascinating, seeing her backed into a corner.”

Eve wants to laugh at Elena’s pure worship of their boss who is at best, a weirdly scary authority figure, and at worst, an ominous nuisance, but instead her heart is pounding. Hugo’s offering them unfettered access to his entire network, claiming he has information on not only the organization behind the Demon, but  _ everything _ . The only problem now is, if he’s bluffing.

“You do understand,” Carolyn says slowly, picking her words like ripe fruit off a tree, “that if we find out you’re lying, or if your information isn’t enough, you’ll be tried for treason.”

Hugo leans back in his chair, feet up on the interrogation table, and crosses his arms. He knows the position he’s in, Eve can tell from the lack of tension in his shoulders and the calculated look in her eye. She wants to be in there asking him questions about his assailant, instead of standing in a dark, drafty room watching Carolyn be infuriatingly vague. 

“I understand just fine,” says Hugo.

Carolyn nods, and if Eve were in her position, she would glance up at the mirror, confirming with an invisible entity what’s going to happen next, but Carolyn is Carolyn. She is, as far as Eve is concerned, the end of the line, and she is in a position to negotiate.

“I heard we’ve got an inside source with these people,” Elena whispers into Eve’s ear. “Someone flipped and brought us Hugo.”

“Not the operative that attacked us?” Eve watches Carolyn adjust herself across from Hugo.

“Don’t think so,” Elena answers.

In the interrogation room, Carolyn finally leans forward. “Who attacked my operative and kidnapped you?”

Hugo shrugs. “I didn’t ask her name.”

“A woman, then,” Carolyn surmises. 

“She wasn’t particularly chatty.” Hugo’s foot twitches impatiently, and Eve can just barely hear him thinking that he’s got better places to be than here. “They wanted access to my network, so I gave them what I could. Which wasn’t much, considering I wasn’t at the source.”

“What did you give them?”

“Nothing important. Like I said, I didn't have full access. Listen, is this going to take much longer?”

“If you stop asking questions,” Carolyn remarks, “then we’ll get through this much easier.”

That shuts him up. Eve finds herself leaning toward the mirror, forehead dangerously close to leaning against it and her breath only sort of fogging it up. She’d forgotten the thrill embedded deep in this kind of work. She’d leaned away from the danger of it all after Bill had died, afraid for her own life and the safety of her family, but it still gets her blood pumping, her excitement peaked.

“What information are you giving us, exactly?” Carolyn leans an elbow on the table, resting her chin in one hand. She’s not taking notes, and Eve wonders why, already doing the mental gymnastics it takes to emulate whatever Carolyn does to seem like she couldn’t be bothered by absolutely anything.

“I have information on it all, on—”

“What specifically,” Carolyn says, waving a hand.

“I have a name.” Hugo pulls his feet down, shoes landing hard on the concrete floor. He leans forward. “They call themselves the Twelve.”

“Shit,” Elena breathes. Eve nods her agreement, unable to tear her eyes away from their interaction.

Carolyn says, “What prevented you from bringing us this information before?”

“My father was in charge of it. I wanted to sell, he wanted to squander. We had many differences, my father and I, but we agreed on one thing: that this information is important.” Hugo’s confidence falters a bit when he talks about his father, his expression growing troubled, but he quickly hides it. “It’s mine, now. The Twelve wanted to buy it from my father, and when he wouldn’t sell, they killed him.”

“We aren’t buying it from you, either,” Carolyn points out.

“What’s to stop them from killing me after I hand it over?” he asks, and Eve realizes he’s got a point. 

Carolyn considers this, finally standing and leaving the room without another word. One step in the hallway before she’s opening the door to their gallery-room, lips pressed into a tight line. “Give him what he needs,” she says, voice quiet, “and start going over the information with Kenny immediately. We need everything he has on this organization, everything else is secondary.”

“What about the Demon?” Eve asks, mostly because she can’t help herself.

“Secondary,” Carolyn repeats. “If you figure out who she is, splendid, but I’d much rather we figure out who’s paying her.” With that, Carolyn slips back into the hallway and out of sight.

Elena lets out a breath, almost squeaking when she says, “This is real! This is  _ actual _ spy stuff, Eve!”

Eve nods her agreement, but turns her gaze back to Hugo, through the mirror. He scrapes a nail on the table, digging at a small divot in the metal, and shifts in his chair. His shoulders are turned inward, a contrast to his demeanor with Carolyn, and Eve realizes he’s scared.

It takes Elena and Eve the better part of the day to get Hugo back to his office. They secure a black escalade for all of Hugo’s movements, complete with bullet proofed glass and a driver that doubles as a bodyguard. If Elena’s worried about getting sniped as they walk across the entryway to Hugo’s building, she doesn’t show it, instead buzzing with excitement and chatting with Hugo about the latest football league happenings.

Eve isn’t listening. She sends a text to Villanelle about working late, trying to compartmentalize her life by storing away the possibility of Villanelle cheating in a different part of her brain entirely, as the three (plus Evan, the bodyguard) reach the elevators.

Kenny’s already on the fifteenth floor, where Turner Solutions stores most of their equipment. Eve takes in the giant room, complete with at least fifty different servers blinking various colored lights at them, and Hugo opens his arms wide and says, “Welcome to paradise.”

Later, after they’ve spent several hours going through various files, Eve finds herself sitting at a computer and looking through various personnel files with both the hope that she accidentally stumbles across the Demon, or that she’s the one to deliver Carolyn the breakthrough. Both options would, quite frankly, be very good for her career. She may even get Carolyn to say something  _ nice _ about her, which feels like a challenge in and of itself. 

Hugo sits next to her, switching between answering Kenny’s questions and scrolling on his phone. “You know,” Eve comments, glancing at him. “You could be helping more.”

“I’ve done all my helping,” Hugo says, but he puts his phone down on the desk and leans toward her. “Oh, this is like mugshot hotties.”

Eve snorts. “What?”

“There’s a twitter for women who get arrested,” he explains. 

Elena turns in her chair. “It’s not just women, it’s women who are objectively attractive. They post their mugshots and everyone comments about what they’d do to them.”

“Some of them are quite cute,” says Hugo.

“It’s gross,” Elena argues, turning back to her own computer.

Currently, Eve’s looking through prison records, so she sees Hugo’s point. Faces of young women stare back at her as she clicks through the files. These are the records associated with the Twelve, not just a random pick of the crop, buried within Hugo’s information on the Twelve’s recruiting methods. They apparently find women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two and make them disappear, killing their old selves and reinventing them in the form of assassins. They’re from many different countries, mostly European ones, but she’s in the Russian section now, and admittedly, not many of them look like they’d end up on “mugshot hotties.”

Eve continues clicking, scanning faces and dates of birth. “Just help me look. See if you recognize anyone.”

“Aye-aye,” Hugo murmurs, just as Elena sighs dramatically.

“I’m getting coffee,” she announces, shoving back from her desk. “Anyone want anything?”

“Yes,” Eve says, not looking up.

“No shit.” Elena grabs her coat, while Kenny scrambles to his feet and says quickly, “I’ll come with you.”

Eve rolls her eyes, staring hard at the computer. Hugo shifts next to her, and she can feel his body heat next to her own. She’s thinking about sliding a bit further away from him when she clicks her mouse and another record pops up on the screen.

“Wait, wait—” Hugo says, and Eve stops clicking. “That’s the woman who grabbed me.”

He points at the screen, pressing a greasy finger to it. The girl is a teenager in her mugshot, hair dark and in her face, lip split. Her date of birth indicates she’d be thirty-four, born in a small town in Russia that Eve can’t even begin to pronounce. Hugo doesn’t need to say more, because Eve recognizes her. Would recognize her anywhere.

The girl is Villanelle.

Villanelle with dark hair and a split lip, years younger than when Eve met her, but still Villanelle. Undoubtedly.

A laugh springs out of Eve’s chest, a choked sound that has Hugo looking at her in alarm. She waves him off, laughing harder, before pushing away from the desk and rolling back a few feet. She laughs hard, tears in her eyes and Hugo glances toward the door. He says, “Uh, you all right?” and Eve shakes her head, struggling for breath. She just can’t stop  _ laughing _ .

She’s possibly the biggest idiot on the planet. Definitely the worst spy. 

Finally, Eve stops laughing. She sits in her chair, tears rolling down her cheeks, and takes a long, deep breath. “Sorry,” she says eventually, and thank fuck Elena and Kenny aren’t here to see this shitshow.  _ Fuck _ , she remembers. “Actually, um, I can finish this by myself. You can look at your phone, do whatever you were doing.”

“I think I’m going to leave instead,” Hugo says, standing up. He’s looking at her like she’s crazy. And honestly, Eve isn’t ruling it out. “I’ll be downstairs with Evan.” He slips out the door, and finally, Eve is alone.

The first thing she does is print out the prison file. It takes too long, the paper chugging out of the printer at a miniscule pace, and she worries about Elena and Kenny coming back too soon, about having to explain herself. She acts on pure instinct, because what the hell is the precedent in a situation like this? Oh, sorry guys, I accidentally just figured out my wife is on an international crime organization’s payroll. 

She doesn’t think about what she’s doing until she leans over her computer, mouse hovering over the “delete” button on Hugo’s file. One click, and Villanelle would be erased. No proof of her association with the Twelve.

If she deletes this, it’s over.

There’s no going back.

Eve takes a deep breath. The reality of it all settles in, sinking in through her pores like static electricity, making her uncomfortable in her skin. Her wife. Working for the exact organization Eve’s been attempting to pin down. Wanted by MI6. If Villanelle goes to jail, that’s it. They’re no longer a family. Eve gets  _ fired _ , at best, and imprisoned at worst.

Antonia gets left without parents. 

But — Villanelle could know the Demon. If Eve turns Villanelle in, there’s no interrogating her or getting what she knows. Everything ends. If Eve deletes the file, confronts Villanelle herself, there’s at least the distinct possibility of getting some  _ answers _ . 

“Fuck me,” Eve breathes, right before she hits “delete.” She grabs the papers from the printer tray and stuffs them into her bag, pulling her coat off her chair and tugging it onto her arms. Just as she strides toward the door, the lock beeps, signaling Elena and Kenny’s return.

“Eve, solve this for us,” Elena says. “Kenny thinks—”

“Sorry, but I have to go,” Eve tells them, sliding past and out the door.

“Eve?” Elena calls. “Everything all right?”

She doesn’t glance back. Can’t let Elena see that she’s just barely holding it together. “Yeah,” she says, hopefully loud enough and thankfully without her voice cracking. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She stabs the elevator button and waits for it to arrive.

The first sob hits her hard, a thick ball in what feels like her lungs grabbing at every piece of her insides and constricting around them, through them, shattering her from the inside out. She leans against the elevator door and breathes in quick breaths. She’d read about it in college — hyperventilate before a big speech to make sure your breathing gets itself into line. By the time the elevator reaches the ground, Eve has wiped her face and regulated her breathing.

She gets to the metro without another breakdown, but it feels like walking on ice. All of these people, with all of these histories, and she had to find the one who wanted to use her as a cover.

She’s sitting down on the train when it occurs to her to call the police. She shouldn’t be going home to an assassin, not when she’s literally a government agent with bosses who specialize in this sort of thing. Embarrassing as it is, she can’t just  _ not call anyone _ . But she can’t, not really. The only person she would’ve been able to call… was Bill. Eve steels herself. She’ll go home, confront Villanelle, and use her to figure out the truth behind Bill’s death. She  _ needs _ to confront Villanelle herself, demand the kind of answers that a cornered predator will not give up once they’re confined. 

Not to mention, Villanelle has Antonia. Eve dry heaves, sitting in the middle of a train, bringing her hand up to her mouth a second too late. The nausea hits her hard, and she closes her eyes, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. When she opens them again, she finds a man staring at her with a confused expression on her face. 

“What?” she asks, too loud, and he blinks, quickly turning to his phone.

Eve’s mouth tastes like bile. Her phone buzzes in her bag, right as the train lands at her stop. It’s a text from Villanelle, and Eve’s heart sinks as she realizes it’s a picture.

Villanelle, lying on the couch with Antonia passed out on her chest. Message:  _ we miss you _ .

And to think, Eve had conned herself into thinking she had a picture perfect family. Leaving the train, Eve walks up the stairs to the street, grateful for the burst of fresh air that tugs at her clothes, and walks quickly down the street. It’s only when she’s two houses away from her own that she realizes the blood pumping through her is not only adrenaline, but fear as well.

She pauses, stone cold, one drive away from her own house, and Eve stares at the windows, suddenly unsure of what she’s even doing here. First task, get Antonia away from Villanelle. Second task, figure out what the  _ fuck _ is going on.

Third task, jump off a bridge.

Ha. Eve shakes her head, gives herself an internal pep talk, and starts walking again. Only when she’s just reached their stoop does someone call out to her.

“Oh, Eve!” It’s an older voice, one Eve immediately places as Dasha, their eccentric Russian neighbor who sometimes doubles as a babysitter when Elena is too busy. Eve has always thought Dasha was a bit out there, but Villanelle liked her immediately when they moved in. Eve squints at her, wondering if there was more to that instant connection than just a personality alignment, as Dasha wanders over to her, dressed in one of her trademark jumpsuits.

“Hi,” Eve says, a bit impatiently. “What’s up?”

“Just visiting,” Dasha says, waving her forward. “I need to talk to Villanelle about a recipe.” She joins Eve on the stoop, waiting for Eve to let them in. “Shall we?”

Eve’s struck with an odd sense of horror, realizing there’s no way out of this without being immeasurably rude and losing a potential babysitter, so she gathers her keys and nods tightly, unlocking the door.

There’s music playing as she enters, and she finds Villanelle in the living room, swaying her hips entirely too awkwardly for people to be seeing it. But Eve, Eve finds it endearing, finds her heart skipping a bit and her stomach twisting in insane butterflies to the point where she reminds herself over and over again that Villanelle is dangerous, Villanelle is a liability, Villanelle is…

Adorable.

“Hello!” Villanelle calls, and when she spots Dasha coming in behind Eve, she freezes. “Hello, other person,” she adds, scowling.

“ _ Bud' milym _ ,” Dasha says, wagging a finger in Villanelle’s direction. “ _ U tebya yest' etot retsept _ ?”

“ _ Ya ne dayu eto tebe. Vy ne zasluzhivayete etogo _ .” Villanelle crosses her arms, and Eve stands off to the side of whatever this is. Turning to Eve, Villanelle says, “We are having a disagreement.”

“She won’t give me the recipe,” Dasha counters. “I let her borrow it, and now she won’t give it back.”

Eve knows enough about Villanelle to know this is happening because Villanelle lost the recipe. Shaking her head, she would laugh if this wasn’t all so fucking serious. “Fine, fine,” she says, waving her arms between the two. To Dasha, Eve says, “I’ll get it and bring it over. Are you doing anything right now?”

“Other than bothering this _zasranets_? No.”

“ _ Idi na hui _ ,” Villanelle mutters.

“Could you watch Antonia? I know it’s last minute, but I’d be very grateful.” Eve stands stiffly between Villanelle and Dasha, waiting for a response.

Dasha frowns. “Fine, okay. Tomorrow, though, bring me that recipe.” She gives Villanelle a final glare.

Eve goes upstairs methodically, gathering a sleeping Antonia in her arms and waking her up as she goes back down. “Hey, you’re gonna sleep at Auntie Dasha’s, okay?”

Antonia rubs at her eyes sleepily. “Okay.” She tucks her head against Eve’s chest. She stumbles a bit when Eve puts her down, but grabs Dasha’s hand and follows her out the front door. Eve has a sick feeling in her stomach, like she’s never going to see her daughter again.

“ _ Govnyuk _ ,” Villanelle mutters, once the front door closes. She turns to Eve, and Eve takes her in, wondering what to even start with. Standing here, in their living room, it’s almost easy for Eve to pretend that none of the day even happened. It’s just her and Villanelle, two people who have an intense connection that Eve can’t begin to think wasn’t real.

Villanelle asks, “Eve? You okay?” like she doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Eve nods. She meets Villanelle’s eyes. Starts the only way she wants to. “Who is Oksana Astankova?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> russian translates roughly to a string of insults between dasha and villanelle, but mostly they're arguing about the recipe. once again full apologies to actual russian speakers
> 
> .
> 
> twitter is @theweedyke ! come chat/yell at me to keep writing this.
> 
> please check out my bio on twitter to donate/spread awareness of petitions and organizations that are gonna help out blm causes and people on the front lines.
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> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! xoxo


	6. anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eve,” she breathes, and it comes out sounding a lot more needy than she wanted it to. “Are you going to kill me or kiss me? I am getting tired of guessing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i had a lot of life stuff going on, and then the pressure of an update schedule psyched me out, so i disappeared. but here's the next installment! hope you enjoy:)
> 
> cw -- slight knifeplay/breathplay

Their first genuine fight had been after the wedding. Eve was six months pregnant, and Villanelle had told her bosses for the first time that she wanted time off. The request did not go over well, and she’d been pulled out on assignment after weeks of staying home, coming at Eve’s every call. But then she left, and while standing in an expensive hotel lobby in Prague, her phone had rang.

Her target was across the lobby, sitting at the bar, and Villanelle had been wearing a tight black evening dress, slit high on her thigh showing off her legs. She didn’t usually resort to this kind of thing — it left a dirty taste in her mouth. 

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, intent on silencing it, but the unknown number blinking back at her pulled on something in her chest. She answered.

Hours later, Villanelle ran through the hallways of a hospital in London, heels hitting the linoleum like cracks of thunder, until she skid into the room the front desk nurse had directed her towards.

There was Eve, eyes closed, lying down in a hospital bed and wearing a gown. Villanelle paused in the doorway, something thick and angry in her throat. This was a threat she hadn’t been able to neutralize — there was no hidden enemy waiting in the bathroom. A pregnancy at Eve’s age had always been more risky, but Villanelle had constantly beat the odds. For the first time in possibly ever, Villanelle swelled with helplessness.

“Eve,” she said softly, stepping further into the room.

Eve blinked at her, rousing from a light sleep. “Hey.”

“Are you— is everything…” She didn’t know what else to say. She knew it wasn’t okay. She knew Eve was in pain. 

“She’s okay,” Eve said, pushing herself up into a sitting position. “Turns out, having a kid in your forties isn’t that safe.”

Villanelle sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing Eve’s hand and holding it tight. Something clicked in her head, then, and she said slowly, “...She?”

Eve smiled. “She. One of the nurses slipped up when they were checking me out.” Eve sighed, squeezing Villanelle’s hand. “You look really nice.”

Villanelle had forgotten about the dress and the makeup. She looked down, suddenly uncomfortable to be sitting here, sitting with Eve, her wife, and dressed as someone else. “You look beautiful,” she whispered to Eve. She didn’t want to admit how scared she’d been, once she got the call. She let out a shaky breath, and said, “I did not know if you were okay…”

“Hey,” Eve said, pulling her in. “It’s good. We’re good.”

Villanelle nodded, letting Eve tug her closer and tuck Villanelle against her chest. But the tight feeling in her chest didn’t go away, no matter how warm the arms around her were. She sniffed, pulling back. “Tell me what happened.”

“There was some bleeding,” Eve started, taking her words one at a time. “After you left, I, um, I called the doctor and he put me on bed rest.”

“What?” Villanelle shook her head slightly. “Why didn’t you call, as soon as—”

“You were working! What was I supposed to do, interrupt your big sale?”

“Yes! Yes, Eve, please interrupt!”

“It’s not a big deal, it was—“

“Not a big deal?” Villanelle gaped at her. “This is our _baby,_ this is your _health_. Nothing is more important.”

“The baby is fine, she’s—“

“Eve, I do not _care_ about the baby.” Villanelle’s expression hardened, as she fought the twist of anger in her chest. “I care about _you_. You are the one I cannot lose. Okay?”

Eve nodded. “Okay.”

But Eve had spent the rest of the night stewing in her own wicked sort of silence, while Villanelle had stayed too long in the kitchen, waiting for Eve to fall asleep before she retired to the bed. It was the first time she’d felt genuinely unwelcome in her own home, so out of place and detached. She didn’t want to feel like that ever, ever again.

.

  
  


_“Who is Oksana Astankova?”_

Villanelle stares at Eve. The fight leaves her, and for the first time since finding out about Eve’s association with MI6, Villanelle truly feels like everything she’s constructed is tumbling, imploding in on itself like the web of twisted lies it is. 

“How long have you…” Villanelle waves a hand, seeing no point in lying.

“This afternoon.”

It is maybe a good thing that Eve hasn’t taken their daughter and disappeared. At least, Villanelle thinks, she has that. She takes a step forward, closer to Eve, but Eve immediately steps back, eyes wide.

A rock sinks in Villanelle’s stomach. Eve is _afraid_ of her. 

“Eve,” she whispers, voice surprisingly not shattering into pieces.

“Who are you,” Eve asks, like she’s terrified of the answer.

There’s a metaphor here somewhere that fits, Villanelle thinks idly. Something about not cornering a threatened animal. Eve stands between her and the front door, posturing, but there is always the door out the back, leading to their small backyard. One quick hop over the fence, and Eve would never be able to follow her. 

Leaving would mean many things, like giving up, like failure. Villanelle does not _fail_. She tries until she succeeds, which means everything until the last attempt is just a warm up.

Eve looks at her like _she’s_ the cornered animal, and not Villanelle. But if Eve is asking this question, then she is well aware of who Oksana is, who Villanelle is, and Villanelle would like to point out that Eve does not particularly deserve to be the one looking more hurt by this.

“Who _are_ you,” Eve repeats. A broken, shattered whisper. Villanelle’s shoulders drop, all hard edges slinking away from her. Eve looks like she’s about to cry, and Villanelle thinks back to the many times she’d wiped at Eve’s cheeks with her thumbs.

She steps forward, but Eve takes a step back, rapidly shaking her head. “No,” she says, putting a hand up like a wall between them. “Answer me.”

“You sound like you already know,” Villanelle replies. They are still standing in the middle of the living room, so Villanelle backs up a few steps and plops down into the armchair next to the television. She gestures at the couch. “Do you want to sit?”

Eve doesn’t move for a long moment. She nods to herself, eyes vacant, before finally settling on the section of the couch furthest from Villanelle. It stings.

“I got in trouble a lot as a kid,” Villanelle starts, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “I was in one of those jails for children for a while.” She stares at her hands. She doesn’t like this part of her history. “I went to prison again after high school.” Looking up, she finds Eve watching her. “I was recruited in prison. I mean, I kind of noticed another girl getting recruited and made sure they took me, not her.”

Eve’s face remains impassive. 

“So…” Villanelle’s leg bounces a bit. 

“I work for MI6,” Eve says, like the information is news.

“I know.”

“Did you kill Hugo’s father?”

Villanelle meets Eve’s eyes. “Yes.” 

Eve nods, quickly standing. She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m gonna… Office.” She turns and walks off, disappearing into the room at the end of the hallway. Villanelle doesn’t move for a long moment, trying to wrap her head around how, exactly to repair this.

They can’t stay here, for one. They’ll have to run, now that the Twelve know who Eve is. They’ll want to get rid of her, whether or not they realize Villanelle’s association with her. And if Villanelle’s going to do anything, she’s going to protect her family. She fidgets in the chair, listening to the silence of their apartment, uncomfortable with it.

For the first time in a while, Villanelle does not embrace the detachment that lives inside of her. She rebels against it, fighting every single urge to run out the front door and disappear forever. Her daughter is next door, her wife in the other room. This is her life now, her tethers to a normal way of living. She’s never letting go.

She hears the _click_ a split second before she reacts, years of training throwing her toward the ground as the wall splinters into an explosion behind her. 

From the ground, she catches the hard look on Eve’s face as she angles the gun, equipped with a silencer, toward Villanelle. Villanelle rolls out of the way, hiding behind the arm of the couch, and says, “Eve, _please_. We can talk about this.”

“Talk?” Eve laughs. “You’re a murderer.”

Villanelle can’t argue, so she sprints into the entry hallway and scrabbles through the coat closet for one of her many hidden weapons. She grabs a knife, hefty and large, and creeps back into the foyer. No sign of Eve. She pads forward cautiously, silently, and pokes her head around the corner to survey the living room. Nothing.

She continues toward the kitchen, pausing with her back against the wall outside the doorway. She can hear the light tread of Eve’s steps as she walks across the tile, bare feet just slightly sticking to the linoleum. Holding her breath, Villanelle waits for Eve to emerge from the doorway, gun first.

The tip of the silencer pricks at her peripheral, and in an instant, Villanelle grabs the gun, angling it downward as Eve pulls the trigger again. The bullet hits the wood floor, and Villanelle immediately thinks about how much getting the floors replaced is going to cost. She twists the gun out of Eve’s hand, throwing it behind them, before Eve manages to get a hand free and clock Villanelle across the jaw with her first.

Villanelle’s ears ring as she stumbles back. She reflexively swings her knife through the air and catches Eve on the shoulder. 

When did Eve get this strong? Eve grabs Villanelle by both shoulders, shoving a knee into her abdomen. Villanelle had planned on going easy, but the blood in her mouth is a telltale signal that Eve is a lot more capable than Villanelle had originally surmised. She swings the knife in the space between them, just as Eve grabs the nearest potted plant and smashes it against Villanelle’s head. Villanelle hits the floor, cheek first, as Eve sprints away from her and upstairs. 

Alarm bells ring in Villanelle’s head as she peels herself off the wood, but then she remembers — Antonia is with Dasha.

Villanelle takes the steps two at a time, wondering where Eve thinks she’s going to go. She probably has more weapons stashed up here, like Villanelle does. She pauses at the top of the stairs, listening, ignoring the way her cheek sings with pain. She hopes the bone isn’t fucked.

“Eve?” she calls, because honesty will probably be the best policy here. 

No answer. She creeps down the upstairs hallway, past Antonia’s empty room and toward their bedroom. The door is slightly open, light pouring into the hallway from inside, and Villanelle takes her time approaching. She presses her empty hand against the door, letting it slide open, but there’s no sign of Eve. 

But the window is open.

Villanelle deflates. She sighs, stepping into the room, and before she can assess where Eve might’ve run off to, there is something around her neck and someone behind her, pulling the wire, or cord, or whatever the fuck is digging into her throat, tight. Villanelle drops her knife as the cord digs in harder, before she inhales a deep breath and holds it in her chest, reaching behind her for some part of Eve to grab onto. She will admit, Eve is being very clever, and she’d be impressed, if she wasn’t finding it very hard to breathe.

She manages to get her hand around Eve’s, tugging Eve forward until they’re both falling to the floor, Eve twisting against her. Villanelle lands on top, grabs both of Eve’s hands and pins them to the floor above her head. Eve fights her, attempting to rip out of her hold, but Villanelle growls, “Stop,” and Eve falls still. Villanelle adds, “I don’t want to hurt you, okay?”

Eve stares up at her. Her chest rises and falls with her hard breathing. Finally, she nods. “Okay.”

“If I let go of you, are you going to hit me?”

Another beat. “No.”

“Okay,” Villanelle says, nodding. She lets go of Eve’s hands, keeping hers close by in case Eve decides to act up, but Eve seems inclined to behave, so Villanelle sits back.

A moment later, Eve hits Villanelle hard enough that she tastes blood. And on the bruised cheek, really, Eve?

“That’s for lying,” Eve says breathlessly, and Villanelle nods. 

But then Eve is sitting up and kissing her, tongue pushing into Villanelle’s mouth as her hands pull at Villanelle’s clothes, tugging in the universal sign for _off_. Villanelle obliges, taking off her shirt in a fluid movement, tossing it across the room. Eve’s hands find her breasts, one slipping underneath Villanelle’s bra and squeezing hard. Villanelle gasps into Eve’s mouth, pulling back.

“And this?” Villanelle breathes. Everything smells like Eve — pinewood and a hint of vanilla. 

Eve blinks at her. “You killed all of those people.”

Villanelle nods. The hands on her still, and Eve glances down at the mess they’ve made. Villanelle, straddling Eve’s hips and half-clothed. A fire burning between her legs, just aching for Eve to start kissing her again, touching her, then—

“How does it feel?” Eve asks, voice soft.

“It doesn’t feel like anything,” Villanelle says. 

“No, I mean,” Eve stops, pulling her hands back. Villanelle fights the urge to pout. “How do _you_ feel? When you do it.”

That is not such an easy question. When she was a child, she felt angry. She took it out on those closest to her, smashing heads when smashing plates wouldn’t do it for her. She liked the crunch of bones, the way it made her feel powerful when she was too small and powerless. Now, though, it’s become a routine, almost habit. “I feel… satisfied.” Eve bites her lip. “I feel,” Villanelle tries again, “like I’m doing something right. The only thing I can do really, really well. You know when you get praised at work, and it makes you want to keep doing whatever it was you were doing? Because someone else acknowledging it feels…”

“Amazing,” Eve finishes.

Villanelle nods. “Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

Eve doesn’t need to clarify what she means. Villanelle knows what she’s referring to — _killing people_. Villanelle doesn’t think this answer is so easy, either, but being in the grey area, somewhere between yes and no, might as well be no. Finally, she says, “Yes.”

“Get off,” Eve whispers, and Villanelle slides off Eve’s hips without a word, wondering what she did wrong this time. But once she stands up, Eve still sitting on the floor, Eve looks up at her and says, “Take your clothes off.”

Villanelle does. She unclasps her bra first, letting it fall to the floor. Her nipples are hard from the kissing and the A/C. She slides out of her pants next, the material pooling on the carpet. Eve stands up. “Those too.”

The underwear comes off. 

“Tell me about the first time,” Eve asks, and it is a very vulnerable question to be asking, while Villanelle stands in the middle of the room, naked.

Villanelle sits on the edge of the bed. “It was a man.” That’s easy enough to start, she guesses. She doesn’t say why she did it, instead continuing with, “I didn’t like him very much. He said things about me. Told my teachers I was weird, off putting. He cornered me at one point, and I grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head against a wall.”

Eve lets out a sharp exhale. She walks over, taking off her shirt. She slides out of her pants, too, before straddling Villanelle’s waist. Villanelle’s hands land on her hips habitually, tugging her just that much closer. Eve puts her hands on Villanelle’s cheeks, thumbs skirting across Villanelle’s lower lip. “That killed him?”

Slowly, Villanelle shakes her head. “He was unconscious. I… grabbed a knife from the kitchen.” Eve’s pupils are blown, her breathing quick. “I cut into him,” Villanelle continues, remembering what, exactly, she cut. “There was so much blood.” Villanelle tightens her grip on Eve’s hips, fingers pressing into Eve’s ass. “He bled out.”

Eve nods, thinking it over in her head. “How many have you…?”

“I don’t know,” Villanelle says, shrugging. 

Eve nods. “Lie down.”

She removes her hands from Villanelle’s face, pushing lightly at Villanelle’s shoulders. Villanelle doesn’t need more urging — she lays flat on the bed. She looks at the ceiling, waiting for Eve to follow her and kiss her senseless, but then she hears it — the light _shink_ of a blade whipping through air, sharp metal now digging into the soft juncture of her throat. Eve hovers above her, and Villanelle could easily overpower her and reverse their positions, but she doesn’t.

“Eve,” she breathes, and it comes out sounding a lot more needy than she wanted it to. “Are you going to kill me or kiss me? I am getting tired of guessing.”

The blade nicks Villanelle’s skin, and a hiss escapes through her teeth. Eve looks down at her, eyes wide like all of sudden she’s unsure about this — the split second of indecision is a window. Villanelle grabs Eve’s wrist, twists it, and using her core, she flips them, Eve landing hard on her back, half on and half off the bed. 

“Is this what you want?” Villanelle asks, twisting Eve’s hand until she drops the knife. Carefully, she picks it up, then rests the tip of it against Eve’s sternum. She drags it between Eve’s breasts, the sharp edge gliding smoothly across Eve's skin. “You want me to kill you like I killed all those other people?”

Eve stares at her, and Villanelle cannot read her eyes. Finally, Eve’s chin tilts down, then back up — she’s _nodding_. Accepting. Wanting.

Villanelle kisses her, biting down on Eve’s lip hard enough to draw blood. Their mouths slide against each other in a bloody mess. Eve groans, and all of a sudden they are fast hands and grabby hands and _desperate_ hands. The knife lands in the bed, forgotten, and Eve’s leg lifts, pressing her thigh against Villanelle’s center. Villanelle ruts against it, desperate for any friction.

She needs more, wants Eve _inside_ her, but Eve’s hands are hardly moving, only grabbing at Villanelle’s chest before they —

Oh. Eve’s grip closes around Villanelle’s throat, fingertips digging hard into her carotid. Villanelle almost twists out of it on reflex. Almost. 

Instead, she sinks into it, leans hard into Eve’s hand. Her hips work faster, grinding hard against Eve’s thigh, and Eve is there, watching her with curious, dark eyes. Villanelle works herself up just as black edges at the corners of her vision, her breath scraping through her throat and just barely getting through. Eve’s brow knits as Villanelle attempts to gasp, and just as she loosens her grip, Villanelle grabs at her wrist, shaking her head.

“Don’t stop,” she manages, and Eve, to her credit, only holds her harder. 

This could be how it all ends — the inability to breathe, the sinking darkness, the mixture of pure adrenaline and pleasure, coursing through her at all angles. If this is it, Villanelle can’t imagine a better way.

At the hand of her lover, in the throes of ecstasy.

Villanelle draws in a breath as she comes, and it takes her a beat to realize it’s because Eve has released her. She collapses against Eve, breathing hard, and then she’s moving again, too caught up in Eve to stop. She drags her lips across Eve’s neck, drawing sharp breaths from Eve’s throat. Her hand is clumsy, tired as it drags down Eve’s body, slipping into Eve's underwear.

She knows Eve’s body too well after all of these years. Knows exactly how to rile her up, how to play her like the prettiest of strings instruments, and yet, everytime her fingers slide right into thick wetness, she’s somehow continually surprised. _She_ does this, only her, and they had been throwing punches just moments ago, and now Eve is… Well, she’s drenched.

Villanelle doesn’t wait — She slides two fingers into Eve without preamble, lifting her head and not caring how mussed her hair probably looks right now because this view, Eve’s head craned back and mouth slightly open, the sweetest sound coming from the deep recess of her chest, this view is Villanelle’s favorite thing in the world. She curls her fingers, slow and agonizing, because she knows Eve needs her hard, fast. 

She curls her fingers, brushes the tips of them against the ridged flesh inside of her, and drags them hard against Eve’s walls. By the time she’s slowly pulled out, Eve is a gasping, twitching mess.

Villanelle slides her hand out. They need to be naked, _both_ of them, so she tears at Eve’s underwear, tugging at them wildly as they get caught on Eve’s ankle.

She rests between Eve’s legs, next, and breathes her in — she pushes Eve’s legs apart even further, presses her lips against the softness of Eve’s inner thighs. She bites, too, dragging her teeth as she gets closer and closer to Eve’s center.

Finally, she wraps her lips around Eve’s swollen clit, and Eve’s hips twitch under her. She holds them down with a hand on either side of Eve’s hips, as her tongue moves up and down — slow and controlled. She sneaks her right hand under Eve’s leg, presses a finger tentatively against Eve’s entrance, before sliding in three fingers, testing Eve’s ability to take her. Eve moans into her arm, thrown across her face, and Villanelle pushes until Eve takes all of her fingers, before drawing them out, starting a solid rhythm. She presses her tongue to Eve’s clit, feeling her own throbbing need building between her own legs. 

It’s this — them against the world. Villanelle realizes, as Eve climbs closer and closer to climax, than she can’t give this up. Not this, not Antonia, not _any of it_. But the killing, the lavish lifestyle, sure. Because nothing beats this, the way Eve feels writing beneath her, the way Eve tastes with Villanelle’s tongue drawing circles around her clit and teasing at her entrance, and the way Eve sounds with Villanelle three fingers deep.

“Fuck,” Eve gasps, drawing Villanelle back in, “Go-- _Jesus_ , don’t, don’t, don’t stop, holy _fuck._ ” Villanelle goes faster, harder, feeling Eve contract around her, and as Eve comes, Villanelle holds her, pressing against her clit until Eve is pushing at her head, too overstimulated. 

Villanelle lifts her head, lips wet with Eve, and grins. Eve blinks at her. “So much for killing me,” Villanelle says, slowly pulling her hand out.

“Don’t— _ah—_ remind me.” Eve’s eyes fall closed, as Villanelle pushes herself to her feet. She slides out of the rest of her clothes, ready to take care of herself, but Eve is looking at her again, with eyes that say she could do it all over again.

“Eve,” Villanelle jokes, sliding back to the bed, “Do not look too excited.”

“You’re an ass,” Eve says, but she’s grabbing at Villanelle, tugging her in for a kiss. She leans back, pulling Villanelle with her, but she keeps tugging, and Villanelle doesn’t get what she means, until—

Villanelle climbs up Eve’s body until her cunt is inches away from Eve’s face. Eve rises to meet her, pressing her lips to Villanelle as Villanelle starts grinding down. It takes them a moment to figure out the beat, but soon enough, Villanelle is grabbing the headboard, hard, and moving her hips in small movements against Eve’s jaw, tongue, face. 

It doesn’t take her long — she’d been ready moments after the first one. She shudders against the headboard, very aware of Eve moving between her legs, but as she comes, Eve’s hands slips up and she presses a finger into Villanelle, drawing a second, more visceral orgasm through Villanelle’s body. Her abdomen crunches in on itself, her muscles quivering, and she lets out a small whine as Eve thrusts into her.

They collapse onto the bed, side by side, and kiss with messy mouths. 

After a few minutes, Villanelle notices Eve staring at the ceiling. “Hey,” she says, propping herself up on an elbow. “You are thinking very loudly.”

Eve smiles, not happily, but tired — the kind of smile someone only smiles when they were thinking of something not great. “I’m just…” She turns her head, meets Villanelle’s eyes. Eve looks beautiful, dark brown hair splayed out against the pillow in a beautiful halo of curls. “What are we going to do?”

“More of whatever we just did,” Villanelle answers immediately.

“No, you know what I mean.”

Villanelle does. “Yes.”

Eve brings a hand to her brow, rubbing at her forehead. “This is fucked.”

“No,” Villanelle says. “ _Y_ _ou_ are fucked. I just did the fucking. Remember?”

Eve shakes her head, and now Villanelle is really worried, because Eve is not even smiling at all anymore. “You work for… them. The Twelve.”

“Yes.”

“What if… What if you helped me take them down?” Eve half sits up, leaning on the headboard, and Villanelle blinks at her curiously. “You could be an inside informant, only going through me and my immediate team, and yeah, oh wait— Yes, this could work.” Eve’s brain is working faster than she can even speak, but there’s a spark in her eyes that Villanelle hasn’t seen in a long, long time. She turns to Villanelle, finally grinning. “You can help me catch The Demon.”

“The Demon? What is that?”

“It’s an agent of the Twelve, we don’t know who they are, but if they’re recruiting women like you, then she could be a woman. _Yes_ , Kenny’s going to finally eat it.” Eve darkens after a beat. “The Demon killed Bill. In Berlin. You remember my old coworker?”

“But I—” Villanelle stops. She’d about said, _But I killed Bill._ Because she did. She remembered, but then she realizes… 

Eve is hunting her. _She_ is The Demon.

And Eve doesn’t know. She just thinks this is all a coincidence — and… Well. She did say she’d do anything not to lose this, huh?

“Okay,” Villanelle agrees, and then Eve is kissing her.

Secrets don’t feel right, now, but Villanelle knows, as Eve falls into her once again, that she’s never, ever giving this up. And if that means helping Eve take down her employer, who is she to stop her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments always appreciated :)
> 
> @theweedyke on twit, butchdyke69 on tumblr.


	7. run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive thank you to twitter user @V3LMS who helped translate the french bits as well as set me straight on what kind of rocks exist. i am a real dummy.

Eve wakes up.

Well, she opens her eyes after a night of uneasy, light sleep. Villanelle snores next to her, lying in her customary splayed out position, face almost buried in the pillow. On every other morning, the drool is endearing. Eve would reach over and wipe the corner of Villanelle’s mouth with her thumb, waking her wife up and then kissing her. On every other morning… Except this isn’t every other morning. 

This is the morning _after_. Eve slides out of bed, placing her feet on the wood floors silently. She blinks, a dizzying migraine settling behind her eyes. Without jostling the bed, she stands and walks out of the room, only stopping to scoop up her discarded shirt from the night before. She throws it on, continuing down the hallway.

She stops at Antonia’s door. It’s early, before six, and the sun is only just cresting over the horizon, light seeping in through her daughter’s curtains. After Villanelle had finally rolled over and fallen asleep the night before, Eve had gone to Dasha’s, waking the older woman in the middle of the night with several apologies on her tongue. She’d picked up a sleeping Antonia and walked her back to their own house, up the stairs, and settled her into bed. 

Eve’s heart aches. All of this, crumbling right before her eyes. Villanelle _kills_ people. Eve’s hand on Antonia’s door frame starts to shake, and she grips the wood just a little bit harder. She continues to the stairs, going to the kitchen. She pulls out the french press, going through the motions.

Four spoonfuls of coffee. Hot water. She holds her hand under the sink, waiting for it to get hot. Next, the kettle. She pours the water in, then puts in the plunger. By now, the process is like driving — she’ll never forget it. Before Villanelle, she’d grab a packet of instant coffee and call it a day. After… it’s this. It’s this and so many other things, like the bidet in their bathroom, or the expensive car they never use. It’s the designer bed sheets and Antonia’s wardrobe being more fancy than Eve’s own.

It’s _everything_. 

Eve doesn’t know if she can go back to life without it. But no, she isn’t. 

She pours the coffee into a mug, testing it with her tongue. It’s hot, hot enough to burn, but she sips at it anyway, letting the sting of the heat settle in her throat. 

Today. She’ll walk into MI6, go straight to Carolyn’s office, and tell her everything. She can only imagine how the conversation might go — _You married a Russian assassin?_ She can so clearly see Carolyn’s slight brow raise, the only sign of her surprise or amusement, anything at Eve’s expense. Eve lets herself smile, just a bit, at the thought of breaking Carolyn Marten’s pokerface. After Bill, Carolyn stepped in as leader of their team, killing the easy atmosphere within the office. Eve still has Elena and Kenny, but Bill…

Eve hears footsteps upstairs, then the squeak of the bathroom door. Villanelle would be up.

Villanelle had agreed to help her, switched sides so easily, and while Eve wants to ask her anything and everything about who she works for, she can’t. The questions don’t form in her mind, don’t come to her when she needs them to, when Villanelle is standing right there in front of her. Because Villanelle had looked her in the eye and agreed to help her find the Demon.

Except Eve knows.

She knows _everything_. 

She can’t go to Carolyn. The coffee, suddenly too hot now, burns her hands. She almost drops the mug. Upstairs, the toilet flushes, followed by the sound of the shower. Eve grips the counter, before turning to the fridge. Taped to it, a drawing by Antonia of three figures. One with dark, wild hair, one with pin straight blonde hair, and another, smaller figure. Their family. 

_“Twenty quid you get married_ ,” Bill’s voice says in her head, a distant memory at this point.

“God, Bill,” Eve whispers. _I’m so sorry._ _This is all my fault_.

Villanelle might’ve killed Bill with her own hands, but Eve orchestrated it by ever entertaining a beautiful stranger on the beach in Curacao in the first place.

Eve is action all at once — she reaches above her head, opening the cabinet and grabbing the Ambien leftover from a particularly bad time post pregnancy. She scans the label — it says no more than two within 24 hours. She pours a few into her hand, counts out five. With a glance over her shoulder, she digs through the cabinets, looking for the mortar and pestle Villanelle insisted they buy that Eve has literally never used once (and she’ll put money on Villanelle never using it either). Above her, the shower turns off as she crushes the pills into a powder.

Next, a second mug. She stares at the coffee, leftover in the french press, and the powder in the small bowl. 

Is she really doing this?

“Eve?” Villanelle’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs, and by the time Villanelle is at the bottom, walking over to the kitchen, Eve has a mug in her hand, offering it to Villanelle.

Dressed only in a robe, Villanelle is a vision. Eve still doesn’t know how she manages to look like this in the morning. Hair damp, pulled over one shoulder, and clear skin practically glowing. She smiles at Eve, taking the mug. “You didn’t have to,” she says, voice low. She moves in, not taking a sip, and presses her lips to Eve’s cheek.

Eve fights the urge to turn her head away. _Just drink it_. She stares at the mug, before Villanelle comes closer, setting the mug down on the counter. She corners Eve against it, pressing their hips together. “Antonia’s still asleep,” Villanelle points out, nosing at Eve’s jaw. “We can continue last night…”

“I thought I’d take her for breakfast,” Eve says. “Before school.”

“Oh?” Villanelle lights up. “I would kill for some pancakes.” Eve flinches at the word choice. Villanelle smirks. “Oops,” she says. But before Eve can come up with some lame cover for her reaction, Villanelle grabs the mug and drains it, closing her eyes at the coffee. “This is wonderful. I’ll get ready. You can get Ant?”

“I thought you didn’t like that name,” Eve says, as Villanelle moves away from her. 

“It is growing on me.” Villanelle looks at Eve over her shoulder. Eve finds herself wondering if anyone is ever going to look at her like that ever again. Warm, lustful and loving at the same time. 

Villanelle disappears up the stairs again, and Eve, she relaxes without having realized she’d been tense. She doesn’t know how soon to expect the Ambien to kick in, but she kicks herself into gear. Quietly and quickly, she grabs an empty backpack from the coat closet, before going to the office, digging through their things. She finds her own passport, then Antonia’s (from the time they took a holiday in France). Beneath it is Villanelle’s, and Eve hesitates, holding her hand over it. She decides to take it, stuffing it into the backpack as well. Next, a stash of cash she’d kept in the bottom of her file cabinet, beneath all the files from her divorce. She has almost… (she counts, losing track twice and having to start over) five thousand. Should be enough to get them out. Away. 

Gone.

With a glance at the stairs, Eve grabs a slip of paper and scribbles out a few words. She falters, unsure how to encapsulate everything into a single note. Just as she's about to write more --

There’s a light _thump_ upstairs.

That’s her cue. She finishes the note with a sloppy, frantic closing. She ditches the backpack onto the kitchen counter and rockets up the stairs, skidding to a stop in the master bedroom, where Villanelle lay on the ground, half dressed. Eve grabs her under the armpits, hefting her up. She struggles — Villanelle is taller than her, more dense, lean with muscle. She manages to get Villanelle half on the bed, before pulling her the rest of the way. She leaves her there while she packs a bag, stuffing it with anything and everything. Shirts, pants, underwear. She grabs an extra pair of shoes, too.

Antonia’s room next. “Hey, kid,” she murmurs. She feels as though she’s moving in slow motion, the way she walks from the door to the bed. Antonia rouses, blinking at her. She’s always been an easy waker, never screaming in the morning. “Time for school,” Eve says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I wanna go early, get some breakfast. Can you get ready quick?”

Like her other mother, Antonia lights up at the suggestion of food. She nods firmly, neatly exiting her bed and beelining for her closet. “Brush your teeth,” Eve tells her, and when Antonia leaves the room and goes to the bathroom, Eve presses fast forward once again — grabbing an entire drawer’s worth of Antonia’s clothes and stuffing them into a bag. By the time Antonia is back, Eve is handing her an outfit already picked out.

Within twenty minutes of Villanelle passing out, Eve is at the door, figuring out the best way to get out of the city.

Sitting on the table next to the door are the keys to Villanelle’s steel grey Aston Martin.

Eve grabs them, towing Antonia to the garage they never use. The car chirps when she unlocks it, the car seat already equipped in the backseat. Eve throws in the backpacks before helping Antonia into the car. “Can I get pancakes?” she asks, grinning, and _Jesus_ , it hurts lying to her.

“Of course,” Eve hums, hands shaking as she buckles Antonia in.

“Is Mama coming?”

Eve pauses, stopping to look at Antonia’s little smile. Finally, she says, “Not today. She has a lot of work to do.”

Antonia nods, and Eve watches for the slightest bit of disappointment. It doesn’t come, and Eve takes that as a sign that she’ll be okay, once they’re in another country, starting a new life. 

Antonia asks, "Can I bring Mr. Lion?"

Her stuffed animal. Ratty as shit. Eve glances to the house. They don't have time to get it, but... "Sure," she finds herself saying. She goes back into the house, finds the lion on Antonia's bed. She doesn't look into the master bedroom, not sure if she'd be able to bear seeing Villanelle, on the ground half-dead. She returns to the garage, gets into the car. 

Eve realizes, as she slides into the driver’s seat, that she hasn’t driven anything this expensive ever. In her entire life. Never needed to. With Antonia secured in the back, and the car purring beneath her, Eve mutters, “First time for everything,” and backs into the garage door.

.

After inspecting the car for damage and seeing only a few scratches (and a particularly large dent on the inside of the garage door, but Eve’s electing to ignore that), they’re on the road, Eve’s knuckles white around the steering wheel. She plays music for Antonia, something stupid from one of her favorite shows, and fields multiple questions of “Where are we going?” and “How much longer?”

Soon enough, they’re descending underneath the channel. The traffic in the tunnel is slow enough to calm Eve’s nerves — if she’s stuck with cars in front and behind her, how could anyone catch up with them at this point?

At some point, she turns back to Antonia, says, “Hey, so it looks like we’re going to take a holiday.”

“Holiday!” Antonia chirps. She tears her eyes away from her tablet, which has kept her entertained for most of the drive already. “Where are we going?”

“France, at first,” Eve says, turning back forward. “You remember your lessons with Mama?”

“ _Ouais!!_ ”

“Good,” Eve sighs, as the cars start moving forward again. 

Once they’re in France, Eve elects not to go toward Paris, moving North instead. The car alerts her that they’re almost out of gas, so she pulls over to a petrol station on the side of the road, sitting tensely in the car, waiting for… 

She doesn’t know. Is she really doing this? Eve glances at the clock — it’s been almost two hours since she left Villanelle, with god knows how much Ambien in her system, passed out in their bed. Eve’s head falls back against the headrest. She feels like she needs to cry, the heavy pressure behind her eyes sending her into a fit of rapid blinking, but nothing comes. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Antonia bounces in her car seat. “Umma, can I get a snack?”

“Can you ask in French?” Eve opens her eyes, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning fully to face Antonia. 

“Um,” Antonia starts, biting her lip. “ _Puis je avoir un… snack._ ” 

Eve laughs, feeling for the first time since yesterday a sense of… rightness. Like things will be okay. “Close enough,” she says. “Okay, let’s get a snack.”

They enter the small store, a tired teenage girl behind the counter. Antonia picks out a variety of snacks, and Eve vetoes a few of them, citing the sugar contents. But she can’t bring herself to deny _everything_ , seeing as she’s the reason Antonia will probably grow up disillusioned with the world, with love, with everything. They end up dropping some sour gummies on the counter, along with bottles of water, a few snack-sized bags of chips, and travel-sized toothpaste. 

The girl recites the total in a monotone voice, waiting for Eve to hand over the money.

Eve realizes too late that she has the entire stack of five thousand bills in her pocket. As normally as possible, then pulls out the stack and quickly pulls a bill out. The girl widens her eyes, but says nothing, glancing at Antonia.

“Keep the change,” Eve says, grabbing Antonia and bolting.

Once they exit, Eve mentally kicking herself for not counting out cash _before_ she was in front of an entire shop of people, she practically drags Antonia by a tightly held hand back to their car. They have probably a day until they need to ditch it, finding another one. Eve goes to put the gas in, letting Antonia play with some pebbles on the ground.

“ _Sympa ta caisse!”_ A man calls, making Eve jump. She turns to the man, a gruff, portly guy with a kind smile. “ _Desolee_ _,”_ he continues, holding up his hands. 

“Ant,” Eve calls. “What’d he say?”

Antonia squints at the man. “He likes the car. _Le voiture?_ ”

“ _Ouais_ ,” he agrees, smiling at them both. He crouches down near Antonia, while Eve hovers protectively. “ _Aimez-vous les roches?_ ”

Antonia nods firmly. “ _Celle ci. C’est un roche… sédimentaire._ ”

“ _C’est une roche ignée. La lave_ ,” he corrects. Antonia inspects the rock, not bothering to look at him, her brows knitting adorably. He stands up, waving at Eve as he begins to move off. “ _Bonne journée_!”

Eve half-heartedly waves back, caught up on the image of Antonia just being a child, playing with rocks. Would she ever be able to have a normal childhood ever again? Eve glances at the car, then the road, back from where they came. “Wait,” Eve says, suddenly, and the man stops. “Um— Antonia, could you ask him which car is his?”

Antonia sits up, features flashing in annoyance at getting pulled from her pebbles. “ _Laquelle est votre voiture?_ ”

The man points across the lot, at a beat up, faded yellow Volvo. “ _Celle-la_.”

“Ask if he wants to trade them,” Eve says, heart beating loudly.

“ _On peut les échanger? Les voitures?_ ” Antonia asks.

The man widens his eyes. “V _raiment? Pourquoi?_ ”

“He wants to know why,” Antonia hums. She looks up at Eve. “Why _are_ we giving away Mama’s car?”

Eve ignores her. “Tell him it’s his. No questions asked. If he gives us his car.”

“Um,” Antonia starts. “ _Vous pouvez avoir notre voiture. Gratuit. Nous voulons votre voiture_.” Eve feels a warmth spread through her chest — despite her earlier misgivings, she has the overwhelming sense that Antonia will be okay, even if Eve isn’t. Antonia can handle herself, because of…

Because of what Villanelle gave her. 

The man stares at them. He glances over his shoulder at his own car, then back at them, as if he’s on some sort of prank show. Eve meets his gaze, pulling Antonia closer to her, hoping he can see what they really are — a mother and daughter in need of _help_.

Slowly, he nods. “Okay.”

Eve nods back. She goes to the car and grabs their backpacks, then digs through the glove compartment, double checking if they’ve missed anything. Finally, she unbuckles the carseat in the back, putting it on the concrete next to the spotless, reflective side door. With Eve’s arms full of stuff, and the man wearing only a backpack, they meet in the middle of the lot and exchange keys.

“Thank you,” Eve says. “ _Merci_.”

“Be safe,” he says, in heavy, accented English. Once Eve has the rusted Volvo keys, she holds them so tightly the metal digs into her palm. The panic is there again, waiting for the man to question his luck at being given a car worth over a hundred thousand, waiting for the carseat not to fit, waiting for a black government escalade to screech to a halt in the parking lot and for three men in suits to point guns at them.

She waits for everything that never comes. Just before she backs out of the lot and drives off, Eve takes a final look at her cellphone. She has a few messages from Elena, an email from Carolyn, and a picture from Kenny. Three missed calls from Villanelle. The number is surprising. Just three? Eve shakes her head, dismissing the notification, which leaves her with her lockscreen staring back at her.

It’s a picture of Villanelle and a toddler Antonia at the beach, both smiling. Antonia is in Villanelle’s lap, Villanelle’s hands under her armpits. Eve stares at it for a long moment, until Antonia reaches forward and taps on her shoulder. “Umma!” she chirps, and Eve pulls her gaze from the phone. She turns it off. Rolls down the window.

Lets her phone fall into the dirt. 

Within minutes, they’re driving out of the lot, the engine chugging along. Eve lets herself relax, disappearing in the back roads of rural France, unsure where they’re going.

Just somewhere else. Far, far away from here.

.

It’s dark by the time they stop. They’re in Strasbourg, a city Eve’s never stepped foot in, but still inside the French border. They’ll be easier to track if they cross the border. As she pulls the car into the back of a small hotel’s lot, she realizes her brain is only half working. If she’s running, she’s doing a shitty job of it. They need disguises, they need new passports, they need… a lot of things they don’t have. 

Eve steps out of the car, glancing around before going for Antonia. Fast asleep, Antonia only begins to rouse when Eve tugs at the buckles of her seat. She blinks. “Where are we?”

“We’re at a hotel,” Eve answers. “See? Look.” She helps Antonia out of the car, the little girl blearily taking in their surroundings. 

“When is Mama coming,” Antonia murmurs, rubbing at her eyes. 

“Mama’s busy at work,” Eve says, grabbing their backpacks. This time, she doesn’t forget to pull out the money she needs _before_ going inside. “Come on. She’ll meet us in a few days, okay?” It hurts, lying to Antonia. The way her daughter’s eyes light up at the mention of Villanelle cuts right through her. 

Antonia drags her feet as they walk to the entrance of the hotel, and Eve, she’s too tense to acknowledge the fatigue. She glances over their shoulder, tugging Antonia along, and wonders if she’ll spend the second night in a row getting barely any sleep. Across the street from the bright, white terraces of the hotel is a convenience store. Right. Eve makes a mental plan to get Antonia set up in the room, then pop over to get a phone. 

There are only two people in the hotel lobby: the night clerk and what looks like a maintenance man. Their gazes are both trained on the television above the desk, playing what looks like to be a rerun of a football match from the other day. As Eve reaches the counter, they both shout in unison. Antonia flinches at the noise, cowering next to Eve’s leg. Eve glances at her, holding her close, and frowns when she notices Antonia’s hand dangerously close to her mouth. She’s sucking her thumb — a habit they’d bumped years ago.

“Excuse me,” Eve says, and one of the men glances at her, but turns back to the television. “ _P_ _ardonnez-moi?_ ” Eve tries, butchering it. “Uh, _parlez-vous Anglais?_ ”

“Yeah,” the clerk responds, finally turning to Eve. He chews loudly on a piece of gum, his forehead creasing as his jaw moves. “What do you need?”

“A room. For the night. I don’t care what kind. And I only have cash.”

“We need an ID on file,” he says, not even looking at her. 

“I don’t have an ID.”

“Then I don’t have a room.”

Eve holds Antonia closer to her. “Please. I’ll pay double, I don’t care.”

Finally, the clerk looks up. He runs his eyes across Eve’s face, then looks down at Antonia, whose cuteness seems to be the negotiating factor here. “Fine,” he sighs. “Two hundred.”

Eve quickly counts out the Euros, placing them on the counter. He takes it, types into a computer, and then turns to a wall behind him, where several keys hang. He grabs one. He goes to hand the key over to Eve, who holds her hand out, but just before giving it over, he says, “You better not trash the room.”

“Of course,” she says, and the key drops into her hand.

The room is almost grotesquely cheerful. Much to Antonia’s delight, there’s a queen-sized bed with another bed on a bunk above it, lying perpendicular. Eve watches as she runs to the ladder and immediately climbs up it, bouncing on the bed above Eve’s eyeline. “Umma, look!”

“I can see,” Eve says, sitting on the edge of the lower bed.

Finally, she feels the anxiety leave her. She has a single moment of peace, as Antonia flops around the higher bed, before it finally hits her. She’s doing this. She’s _here_ , in the middle of an unfamiliar city, on the run with a small girl away from her _wife_. Her wife who is an assassin who has killed _tens of people._ Maybe hundreds.

Eve runs to the bathroom, retching. She barely makes it to her knees, landing on them hard as she leans over the toilet. The vomit leaves an acrid taste in her mouth.

By the time she’s washed out her mouth ten times, Antonia is asleep in the bed. Perfect. Eve grabs her cash, hides the rest of it underneath the bedside table. She locks the door behind her, preventing Antonia from wandering, and covers her hair with a beanie on her way out. 

The convenience store is nothing short of sad. Eve beelines for the prepaid phones, dumping that and some snacks onto the counter. The cashier doesn't so much say a word to her other than her total, and soon enough, she’s outside and dialing a number she has memorized.

“Hello?” A familiar British voice says.

Eve’s relieved, closing her eyes. “Elena.”

“Eve! Where the hell are you? We’ve all been in worried. No one could reach you.” There’s some shuffling on Elena’s side. When her voice comes again, it’s lowered. “Are you all right?”

“Not really,” Eve admits. “Look, I can’t tell you where I am.”

“That doesn’t sound shifty at all.”

Eve sighs. “I’m sorry. I just… I need your help. I’ll tell you why someday, but not right now.” Eve doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not, but it seems to work.

“What do you need?”

“I need new passports. For me and Antonia. I need you or Kenny even to help me get into contact with someone who can help with that.”

“Without you telling me where you are.”

“Right.”

Elena sighs. “You know I could get fired.”

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. Such a long pause that Eve hears Kenny’s voice on the other end, getting louder as he gets closer. “Everything all right?”

Elena must wave him away, because a beat after Eve hears his voice, Elena says, “Okay. I’ll see what we can do. Can I reach you at this number again?”

Eve’s heart swells. “Yeah. Please. Thank you, Elena. Thank you so much.”

“I’m only doing it because you sound… well, you sound not great, Eve.”

“Not great is an understatement,” Eve mutters. The wind picks up, ruffling through her hair poking out under the beanie, sending loose curls flying into her face. Eve brushes them away, looking out at the few cars driving by. “There’s something else you can do for me, too. And this one won’t get you fired. You’ll probably become the director of the entire fucking intelligence service.”

“Now I’m intrigued,” Elena jokes, but still sounds thoroughly worried. “What is it?”

“I know who the Demon is,” Eve starts, losing her nerve. “It’s why I’m running.”

“What? Why didn’t you—”

“It’s complicated, but… Get me that info, and I’ll tell you.”

Another pregnant pause stretches between them. Eve toes at the concrete, jumping a little as the convenience store door opens behind her. A man nods at her, walking to his car. Finally, Elena says, “I never thought blackmail would be your style.”

“Me neither,” Eve admits. “I promise if I’m about to die or something, I’ll text you.”

“You better,” Elena says, and the joviality is back in her tone. “I’ll get you those details ASAP.”

“Thanks.”

“Eve. Be safe, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eve pockets the phone as she crosses the street. The clerk and maintenance man are nowhere to be found when she returns, so she takes the stairs back to the room without encountering anyone. Antonia is still asleep, so Eve goes to the bathroom and finally takes stock. She brushes her teeth, zoning out and ultimately taking a minute longer than she usually does. She flosses, pricking at her gums with an unusual force that feels warranted, given the situation. After splashing her face with a handful of water, Eve takes a good look at herself in the mirror. She doesn’t know when she got this _old_ and… tired.

She sighs. 

Wiping her hands on a hand towel, Eve exits the bathroom.

When it happens, she doesn’t see it. A cloth bag slams over her head, and in the split second it takes her to bring her hands up and fight back, she’s hit on her head _hard_ and crumples to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up @dykefruit on twitter, @butchdyke69 on tumblr. kudos and comments are always appreciated. love you guys.
> 
> thank you all for the well wishes on the last chapter! i'm doing well, just was very uninspired with this project/in general. i wish i could promise quicker updates, but i don't want to disappoint! do not fret, however. i will not be abandoning this. it'll just come slowly :)
> 
> .
> 
> french translations:
> 
> car guy: cool car!  
> ant: the car?  
> car guy: yeah. you like rocks?  
> ant: this one. it's a sedimentary rock.  
> car guy: it's an igneous rock. see, the lava... have a good day!
> 
> the rest is translated between antonia, my budding french extraordinaire.


	8. normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It sounds stupid, saying it aloud like this, right here standing on the threshold of her and Eve’s home. The night of their wedding, she fucked Eve a few steps into the house, right in the middle of the foyer. They’d barely made it up the stairs. It sounds stupid, like writhing about on the floor like two idiots in love instead of taking the steps to the bedroom, but it is what she is. What she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wassup. peep the new chapter ending. it's in SIGHT! we are hurtling toward it. 
> 
> cw: descriptions of violence (it's a villanelle chapter...)

Villanelle wakes up.

She becomes aware of two things, one after the other, shifting through her mind as slow as molasses. She blinks, her eyelids _heavy_ , and first realizes that it is dark outside. Not dusk, not a hint of light in the sky. Dark. She feels at once caged, confined to her skin in a way that feels so wholly uncomfortable. She can feel it, the light sensation of her and Eve’s bedsheets, the muddiness of her own robe, rubbing distinctly and riding up her forearms, caught at her elbow. 

She pushes herself upright, her head crying out with a sharp pain that can only mean she _hit_ it on something. When she tries to lift her hand and run it across her forehead, the movement feels foreign, and she stares at her hand because it doesn’t feel like _hers_.

She never really understood the phrase “like getting hit by a truck,” until this moment. Her entire body aches with a memory of pain, like the lactic acid in her muscles has been stagnant for weeks. Her head, too, not only aches from getting hit, but also with a muted, electric undercurrent of pain as soon as she lifts it.

She blinks. The last thing she remembers… Eve, in the kitchen. After a long, arduous night. Coffee.

Coffee.

Villanelle twists, casting her gaze across the floor, and takes in the splintered pieces of ceramic settled across the rug. Broken. Huh. She takes a deep breath, half a yawn and half to get the muscles in her mouth to move again.

A second realization, born the second she attempts to take a step away from the bed, immediately nosediving as a wave of black settles over her eyesight and the world flips, hits her. She’s been _drugged_. Her face, her poor face — she pushes herself up once again. She prods at her cheekbone, feeling for the sting that would confirm a broken bone, but none comes. Just the ache of a new bruise and maybe a little bit of blood in her mouth. 

“Eve?” she calls, voice filling the room.

She crawls to the doorframe, uses it to pull herself back to her feet. Before stepping into the hallway, she glances at the clock.

Almost 10 at night.

A wave of nausea hits her, but she holds it back. It lessens as she steps into the hallway, stumbling toward Antonia’s room. Antonia is nowhere, a few sets of clothes on the ground as if they’d been torn out of the drawers. Rude. Half of Antonia’s clothes are _designer_ , thank you. The bed sits unmade.

“Eve?” she yells again, and her voice fills the hallway and sifts down the stairs, no doubt reaching the entire rest of the house. No response.

A flash, an image materializing in Villanelle’s mind — Eve and Antonia, dead and bloodied in the kitchen, side by side. She bolts down the stairs, skidding into the kitchen only to find nothing. No one dead, not a glass out of place, except… A note.

She picks it up. Reads. 

_Villanelle,_

_I’m sorry._

_-E_

It takes a ridiculous amount of energy to scrunch the paper into a little ball. It should be easy, what with her feelings overflowing the very shallow basin of tolerance she has for them. Yet, the words bury themselves deep in her chest, set to be stomped on by an entire funeral procession until Villanelle is nothing, nothing, nothing. Always, she has told people it feels like _nothing_. Always, she has lied.

Killing is a means to an end. The end being feeling like _herself_ , for the short amount of time she watches the life drain out of someone’s eyes. Her feelings spill out and onto the floor and she feels all of them at once, a supernova of electric currents in her head. 

Eve is gone. That much, she’s sure of. 

Villanelle grabs the nearest shelf, a standalone holding various dry goods and spices and whatever else they’ve compiled for their home, and whips it to the ground. Small jars shatter. The wooden shelves splinter and break. Villanelle steps on the glass. Doesn’t care if it stings. She glances at the ground, feeling positively dull, and sees a framed photo of her, Eve, and Antonia. At the park, maybe. Somewhere outside.

She reaches down and grabs the picture, sliding it out of what remains of the frame. She stares at it a beat, before letting it flutter to the ground, instead walking right out of the kitchen and scrambling up the stairs.

She finds her phone in seconds. 

“I’m sorry, the number you’ve reached is unavailable—” Villanelle dials again.

“I’m sorry, the number you’ve—” Villanelle hangs up, dialing again.

“I’m sorry—” This time, the phone is flying across the room, shattering into pieces as it hits the wall, leaving a dent in its wake. She regrets it immediately, but lets the relief of doing _something_ light a fire inside of her. Then, she’s tearing the sheets off the bed with a muffled scream. Next, the alarm clock from earlier, shattering against the wall, too. She demolishes their bedroom in pieces, tearing the clothes out of the closet, throwing the furniture to the ground, and delivering an ill-intentioned fist to the mirror.

She holds her hand, breathing hard, and takes a beat to roll her eyes. Really, like this? She can hear Konstantin’s voice in the back of her head, feel his judgy eyes on the back of her head.

She should’ve guessed — he’d told her, early on, that living a normal life wouldn’t work. _Because you are not_ , he’d answered, when she’d questioned it. Of course, he said nothing of his own family, his wife, his daughter. Only skirted the topic when Villanelle brought them up. He never liked Eve, never wanted to meet her, told Villanelle, even after she’d introduced him to Antonia, that it wouldn’t _last_.

She should’ve listened.

Villanelle watches the blood seep from her knuckles where the mirror glass cut into her. It feels like nothing and everything, hurts more tangibly than the ache in her chest at the realization Eve’s gone.

It takes an amount of time for her brain to start working. Her instincts fail her immediately, only kicking into drive once the pain recedes. Villanelle gets dressed, something casual and easy, ties her hair back, and pads down the stairs. The keys to the Aston are gone, which makes sense. She would take the car, if she were Eve. She finds herself smiling, as she reaches for the front door knob, because Eve is _smart_. And capable. And gorgeous. And—

“Oh,” Elena says, because she is standing on the front porch, hand raised to knock, just as Villanelle is sliding out. “You didn’t answer your cell.”

“My phone is broken,” Villanelle shrugs. Behind Elena stands a pasty looking boy who meets Villanelle’s gaze, blushes a bright red, and then drops his eyes to the ground. Villanelle turns back to Elena listlessly.

“Eve is missing,” Elena says, matter-of-fact. “She—”

“I know.”

Elena tilts her head. “You know?”

“She left,” Villanelle explains. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right, because—”

“We had a fight, okay?” Villanelle raises her hands in surrender, because _fine_ , they are talking about it. “She thought—”

“Listen to me,” Elena says seriously. “She called me earlier, said something about knowing who the Demon is and how she’s getting the hell out of London. She needed my help, and then she didn’t call me when she said she would.”

Villanelle nods, thinking about it. “I have to tell you something,” Villanelle says, chewing on the next words that bubble into her mouth. They are hard, like taffy. Difficult to say. “We do not have time to _think_ about it, but I need to tell you.” Elena blinks, as Villanelle adds, “Who is he?”

“That’s Kenny,” Elena supplies.

“Hi,” says Kenny.

“He’s tech support. He works with Eve and I.”

Great. Now two people she might have to kill in the future. A beat, then Villanelle corrects herself. She can’t kill them. Not if she wants Eve back, somehow, somewhen. She readies herself, then says, “I am the Demon.”

It sounds stupid, saying it aloud like this, right here standing on the threshold of her and Eve’s home. The night of their wedding, she fucked Eve a few steps into the house, right in the middle of the foyer. They’d barely made it up the stairs. It sounds stupid, like writhing about on the floor like two idiots in love instead of taking the steps to the bedroom, but it is what she is. What she _does_.

Elena’s jaw drops in a comical, this-should-be-a-movie kind of moment. Then, as Villanelle opens her mouth to continue with what they need to do, Elena takes a swing. It’s a clumsy punch, landing half on Villanelle’s jaw. Villanelle should have expected that sure, and she should’ve expected the boy to start backing away, punching the emergency number into his phone.

Villanelle lunges for him, wrestling the phone out of his hands. They land on the ground, Villanelle straddling him and grappling for the phone, as the boy screams, “Don’tkillme, Don’tkillme!” She gets the phone, throws it a healthy distance away, where it shatters in the middle of the street. A beat later, a car drives by and crunches over it. 

“You’re joking, right?” Elena says from behind them, as Kenny cowers beneath her, hands in front of his face.

This is not a good look. Admitting to killing people, immediately wrestling an MI6 agent to the ground, then needing to stand up and tell them that is not the _issue_ right now. 

She stands, dusting herself off, and takes a step away from them. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she says carefully. “We can talk about me after we figure out where Eve is.”

“You’re not doing anything with Eve,” Elena says, taking a protective step in front of Kenny, now scrambling to his feet. “She left you for a reason. She was right to run away.”

“Yes,” Villanelle agrees, as much as it pains her. “She was right.”

Elena stares at her. Finally breaks. “I wasn’t expecting you to agree with me.”

“I am shit, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Sounds pretty nice, actually,” Elena says. “Considering you’re, like, the most egotistical person I’ve ever met.” Realization dawns across her face. “Shit. You’re, like, a textbook psychopath.”

“Don’t call me that,” Villanelle says, and though her voice is low it is also dark. 

Elena regards her cautiously. “Sorry.” She glances at Kenny, while the ache in Villanelle’s head pounds at full force, tight and painful right behind her eyes. “Listen,” Elena says. “You care about Eve, yeah?”

Villanelle nods. Then, “I _love_ Eve.”

“Right,” Elena says, voice sounding like she doesn’t believe her. “Maybe you should wait here, see if she comes back, and we can—”

Villanelle realizes, in all of her wallowing, she’d ignored what Elena was actually saying. Eve is not only gone, but missing. Her and Antonia. “No,” she says quickly. “I have to find her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Elena tries.

“You are Eve’s friend,” Villanelle says, her voice low and single tone, “So I will not threaten you with violence. I am not staying here.”

A silence hangs between them. The time could be used for something important, something practical, a step in the right direction toward finding Eve, yet Villanelle waits. She stands off with Elena, Kenny almost cowering behind the latter, until Elena finally, slowly nods. 

And then Villanelle slides into the backseat of Kenny’s car, sharing the space with crumbled up soda cans and a few dirty items of clothes. “Sorry,” Kenny says, throwing the car in reverse. “About the mess, I mean.”

“Where are we going?” Villanelle lets her head _thud_ against the backseat headrest, no thanks to Kenny’s terrible, start-stop driving. 

“Our office.” Elena doesn’t glance up from her phone.

“That is so stupid.”

Elena looks up, slowly, and shrugs. “What’s your idea, Einstein?”

Admittedly, Villanelle does not have an idea. What she has is a desperation that cannot be matched, the incredible urge to do something, _anything_ , with herself. She is energy potential in action, a spring waiting to be sprung, and she cannot be in this car, not like this, not right now, not when Eve is in danger. “Could you go faster?”

“I’m going the limit,” Kenny says, right as Elena says, “We’ve been in the car five minutes.”

Maybe they have. Villanelle’s knees bounce in an alternative rhythm, each leg taking a turn to perch on the edge of her toes, feet in a perfect raised arch. Her hands, twisted together into a knot between her knees, twist even tighter, her knuckles going white. If one of the two idiots in the front seat were back here with her, she reasons they would be dead by now. She would have killed them. Maybe she still has time, before they get to the office. Anything to stop this turmoil inside of her, building and building and building and—

The car stops. Villanelle blinks, realizing they’re in a parking garage, somewhere between the third and fourth floors of a nondescript building. Villanelle climbs out of the backseat, unfurling her legs in such a way it feels like she’s opening like a venus fly trap, except now she is the fly, walking into the trap.

This is MI6. 

And she is… herself. “I just realized,” Villanelle says, leaning against the car very casual-like. Internally, she commends herself on her ability to continue pretending to be a normal human being, just a worried wife who is planning on helping her missing wife’s coworkers find her. She is very good at it, except she wants to crawl out of her skin in a very visceral, bloody way. “I can’t go in there.”

Elena looks like she wants to argue, before she bites her lip. “You’re right.”

“I am always right,” Villanelle says, sounding hollow. 

“You can… you can stay in the car?” Elena glances at Kenny. “We’ll grab what we need, then we can regroup… somewhere else.” Kenny nods an affirmative.

“I need the keys,” Villanelle tries, knowing it won’t work. “For the air conditioning.”

“Um,” Kenny says, fiddling with them. “Sure.” He holds out the keys. Okay. Maybe it _will_ work. Villanelle wants to snatch them very quickly, make Kenny jump out of his skin and stumble backwards and maybe fall to the ground, but instead, she reaches out very normally (yes, she is _good_ , she is _normal_ ) and takes them.

“Thank you.”

“Okay. We’ll go in, get our information, then we can… I don’t know. Reach out to Hugo? Is that a plan?” 

“I do not know who that is,” Villanelle says.

“You should,” Kenny says. When she turns her glare to him, he cowers a bit. “I mean, you almost topped him.”

Villanelle smiles. “Motorcycle boy.”

“I’ll email him,” Elena says. “We’ll be back in ten minutes.” Then, to Villanelle, she adds, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course,” Villanelle says, because she _never_ does anything stupid.

Elena and Kenny disappear inside, while Villanelle waits, leaning on the trunk of Kenny’s shitty car. It’s no Aston Martin, but Villanelle supposes her expensive tastes don’t really matter right now. 

She slides into the driver’s seat, backs out of the parking spot, and drives out of the car park.

.

“Where are you?”

Kenny, at least, has bluetooth. Villanelle would’ve hooked her own phone up to it, but seeing as she shattered it, Kenny’s forgotten phone in the cupholder will do. 

On the other line, Konstantin grumbles. “Why do you need to know?” Then, he adds, “What are you doing, calling so late?”

He sounds tired. Villanelle doesn’t have a trace of her earlier grogginess in her system. Smart Eve, whatever she drugged her with wasn’t something illegal, something that stays for hours. She would kiss Eve, if Eve would let her. “I need to talk to the big boss,” Villanelle tells him, cutting to the chase.

Warily, he asks, “Why?”

“I want to complain about you,” she says. “What do you think, why? I want to do more. I need to let them know.”

There’s a long silence on his end. Then, some shuffling, and a quick, “Stop that!”

Villanelle shifts in the seat, letting her right hand tap a beat into her thigh. “Is that your ugly kid?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “Something like that.”

“Ignore her.” A car honks at her as she cuts in front of them, and she easily delivers a well-timed middle finger. “Tell me how to meet with them.”

“It’s late,” he argues. “Can we do this tomorrow?”

“No, we cannot do this tomorrow. If you do not send me the address, I will go to your house and kill you and your stupid family.”

Silence. Not even the sound of Konstantin’s breath. Finally, a long, irritated sigh. “You do not know where my family is.”

“Are you sure?” She’s bluffing, but he and she both know she has picked Irina up from school enough times to be in the _vicinity_.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “But only because you asked so nicely.” She gives him Kenny’s phone number, and a beat later, an address pops into the phone. “I will tell them you are coming,” he says. “Just so you know.”

She doesn’t say goodbye, hanging up before he can get in another word. She has to do this before she can think too hard about it. It’s convenient, the address being in London, but this feels like less of a trap than MI6 did, and maybe that means something. She drives for about 30 minutes, the traffic light and her car moving fast. She ignores the phone calls from Elena, a bit disgusted to see Kenny’s contact name for her (babe ❤️✨).

It makes her sad, too. She thinks about her phone, shattered in her bedroom, where Eve’s contact name is “🥵🥵mama🥵🥵”. Where did all of these feelings come from? She feels sad and angry and sick of all of it, suddenly, so when she pulls up to the address, a tall, bare building in the middle of the shipping district, she is a whole lot of _nothing_. She is ready.

.

She waits in a large, open room. Floor to ceiling windows reveal the glittering city around them, while Villanelle thinks about what she should’ve worn instead to this meeting. As it stands, she’s in well-fitted trousers, a plain black tee, and an olive green bomber jacket. Something about this moment calls for an outrageously decorated suit, something bright and terrible. She thinks of poisonous frogs; the brightest ones are the most deadly. 

“Villanelle,” a voice says, tinged with French. She turns to find just another person, standing in this room. Two people, and Villanelle’s not entirely sure who spoke. The one on the left, the more sophisticated looking woman, with straight brown hair just brushing her shoulders, a long, elegant nose, and kind eyes, she says, “It is so wonderful to finally meet you.”

Villanelle says, “I’ve heard only terrible things about you.” In truth, she has heard nothing. Not that it matters.

“My name is Hélène,” the woman says. “This is Rhian.” She gestures to the other woman in the room, who wears no expression, doesn’t even glance at either of them, and has what Villanelle might guess is the worst haircut ever. No. Actually, no, no guess. She knows. 

“Ryan?” Villanelle says, using her best imitation of an American accent.

“Rhian,” the girl says, not missing a beat. She’s Welsh, or at least the accent is. 

“Ryan.” Villanelle doesn’t attempt to say it currently. “Ian? Rihanna? So complicated.”

Rhian rolls her eyes, sending an annoyed glance in Hélène’s direction. Hélène shrugs, walking toward the windows. Who would be stupid enough to turn their back on a deadly killer? Especially when they’re holding said deadly killer’s wife and child hostage? Villanelle follows, a few steps behind, and glances over at Rhian, who is steadfastly not looking at her. Maybe Rhian is a bodyguard or something. Villanelle could take her.

“What are you thinking?” Hélène says, and she’s almost a foot away, so close Villanelle almost runs into her.

“About how Ryan’s accent is shit,” Villanelle says, hoping she sounds genuine. It’s a lame excuse, and she honestly can’t tell if Hélène believes her.

“Hm.” Hélène shifts. Her hands fall into place behind her back, grasping each other, and Villanelle thinks it would be so easy, to step right up and grab either side of Hélène’s pretty little head, snap her neck, and be done with it.

But of course, if Rhian has a gun, hidden somewhere in her ugly jumpsuit, maybe not so easy.

“Well,” Hélène remarks, turning with a smile. “You wanted to meet with me?”

“You’re very timely,” Villanelle observes. 

“You’re one of our best.” Hélène looks Villanelle up and down, and if Villanelle didn’t know any better, she’d think Hélène was checking her out, taking her in. “Did you want something?”

She can’t spell it out, can she? “You have something of mine.”

Hélène nods. “You lost a valuable source of ours.”

What? Source? “I never lose anything.”

“Hugo Turner, Turner Solutions. You let him slip away.”

“No, I didn’t,” Villanelle argues. “I held him overnight, like you asked, and then I…” _Gave him to Konstantin._ Hélène waits expectantly. It takes less than a minute for it to settle in Villanelle’s head. Somehow, Konstantin is the variable here, doing whatever it is he likes to do without repercussions. Well, Villanelle will show him. She can do her job very well _and_ be normal. “I gave him to Konstantin,” Villanelle says, lifting her chin. “Last I saw him, he was in good hands.”

Hélène looks at her. They don’t know each other well enough to read each other’s tells, and Hélène must realize that, because she nods. “We have been wary of Konstantin for a while.”

This is news. “Wary? What does that entail?”

“We have people watching him, just in case.” Hélène shifts her weight. “You could kill him, yes? If we asked you to?”

Undying loyalty. No questions here, just facts. Would she? Could she? Her threat from earlier was not thinly veiled. She could, that much she’s sure of, it means other pieces of her life were safe. “How does he have a life?” she finds herself asking. She’s removed from it now, hoping she doesn’t sound too desperate. “How does he have a wife and a child, doing something like this?”

Hélène certainly wasn’t expecting this. Villanelle prides herself on being unexpected. “The same way I do, I suppose. Compartmentalization. Strength.”

“Strength,” Villanelle repeats. “I could do this.”

The slight tip of Hélène’s hand, the blink that tells Villanelle that somehow, they don’t know that Eve is hers. “Do you want to?”

And the bluff, finished. “No,” she answers. “But I want more.” She treads carefully, so carefully in the next moment. Like ice. “The agent, the American masquerading as MI6, you’ve got her?”

“She is in hand,” Hélène hums. “She is with…” A weird expression crosses her face. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to find out if you actually _can_ kill Konstantin.” She gives Villanelle a smile. “He has her. He’s bringing her to us, and once we find out how much she knows exactly, we will kill her, too.”

It takes everything within her to not hit the self-satisfied expression off of Hélène’s face. She is normal, she is _empty_ , and she is coldhearted. Nothing, nothing, she is nothing. “I’ve met her,” she says slowly. “She bested me.”

“Oh?”

“Let me do it.” She cannot say kill.

Hélène waits a beat. “Consider it your application for better things. Higher occupancies.” She nods at Rhian behind Villanelle, and Villanelle turns, meets her new best friend’s gaze. “Rhian will take you downstairs. You’ll work with her on this.”

Another obstacle. Another body in the way. Villanelle can already imagine killing Rhian. It will be easy, like slicing through paper. 

As Villanelle turns to join Rhian, Hélène says, “Oh, and Villanelle?” Villanelle looks back. “We’re very impressed with you, you must know that by now.” Villanelle _preens_. Take that Konstantin. She can do both, she is so close to being the best killer the world has ever seen, the best collaborator, the best wife, the best mother (after Eve, of course). She is the best, and she is normal. 

Villanelle tries not to buzz as she follows Rhian down the stairs. She focuses on Rhian’s shitty hair, imagines grabbing her head and pounding it against the railing. But then they are down stairs, and Villanelle is getting closer to Eve and Antonia, she can feel it. Rhian takes her through a large shipping hall on the ground floor, weaving between walls of boxes and shelves of shipping supplies. They reach the end of it, slipping through a door, and Villanelle finds herself in an empty room.

She steps past Rhian, turning around. “So we’re waiting here?” Except the door is closed, now. Locked. Rhian is outside of it, staring at Villanelle through the small, vertical window. Villanelle’s hand drifts to rest on the door, before a burst of energy travels through her. 

“Did you really think we didn’t _know_?” Rhian sneers. Admittedly, Villanelle had been focused on her _own_ hand, too focused on bluffing she didn't realize she was being played.

She slams an open palm too hard against the door. Rhian does not even flinch. “I’m going to gut you,” Villanelle says, but it’s fleeting, it doesn’t mean anything. If it is accomplishing anything, it is only proving to Rhian what a failure she is, but Villanelle is mad, she is desperate, she is—

“You are tactless,” Rhian continues, only a small pane of glass separating the two of them. “You are messy, disorganized, reckless, and worst of all, you’re terrible at following directions.” She lifts a lip. “I’m going to enjoy killing your little girlfriend. Slowly, I think.”

She doesn’t bother to raise her voice to be heard through the door. It’s a low, distant sentence, but Villanelle hears it, she hears it and she _dies_.

“She’s my _wife_ ,” Villanelle says. “She’s—” She bites her tongue. Cannot say anything, cannot play her hand like this. She is already two times too many, with that, and she is tired.

(But Eve, she is everything, more than what it feels like to kill someone, more than the way boredom _lacks_.)

Instead, Villanelle slams her closed fist into the window as hard as she possibly can. It breaks, but doesn’t shatter, but Rhian flinches, and that, that is enough. Enough to justify the cuts on her knuckles, the pain searing through her hand. Except she cannot feel it, not like this. She is too angry, too ruined. 

She turns and looks at the plain room. There is nothing here to help her. No shelves, no desk, not even a chair. Just emptiness. 

Does one die trapped? Or are they killed? The first, active. A choice she can _make_ , something to give her agency. The second, passive. Someone else in power, taking control. Villanelle isn’t sure she wants either.

Killing, Villanelle thinks, has become sensationalized. The glittering of blood, described as rubies, as crimson, as thick, guttural spill — it’s all just the media showing their hand too early, playing its cards so incredibly badly. Who ever told them you can hold someone’s dying in the palm of your hand as easily as if it was a pumping, beating heart? In reality, dying (and killing, too) feels like this: A slow wound, a perpetual ache in your chest that spreads everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

A sick sense of _I should’ve known_.

That’s what’s in her throat as Rhian smirks at her through the window, as her figure moves further and further down the hallway. Leaves Villanelle alone, trapped in a room too small for every piece of her. Too small, it cannot possibly hold her rage, her emptiness, the black hole ripping through her and swallowing everything in its path. Her cells, her psychopathy, whatever else is inside of her, it’s gone by the time Rhian has left.

Villanelle sits down on the floor, presses her back to the cool, hard wall. Closes her eyes. She pulls her knees to her chest, holds them there, curls into as small of a ball as possible. 

For a moment, she will be small. Give her a moment. 

Just a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @dykefruit on twitter. 
> 
> comments mean the WORLD to me. tell me what you love about the chapter. give me your unintelligible reactions. anything you want, i'd love to hear :) thank you guys for sticking with me thus far.
> 
> full credit to @revolutioneyed on twitter for the fun with villanelle mis-naming rhian... i could NOT pass it up.


	9. backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle wrote vows for their wedding. No cheesy, googled shit. Even Eve had to at least take a little inspiration from Richard Siken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while. :)

When Antonia was three, she found a mouse. 

She proceeded to hide the mouse from both Eve and Villanelle, not informing them of her “new friend” until the mouse became a nuisance, which meant only after Eve had discovered half a loaf of bread nibbled away at and set traps. Antonia had found the traps before the mouse had, and she’d grabbed Eve’s hand, tears shining in her eyes, and mumbled absolute nonsense about her mouse friend.

Villanelle had grabbed Antonia and lifted her high in the air. “We’ll keep the mouse,” she announced, while Eve glared, because no, they will not.

Eve hid the traps in the places Antonia didn’t go — her office, the cupboard underneath the sink. She waited for weeks for the stupid mouse to stop eating their counter food and actually take the bait. She would’ve thought the mouse had disappeared, moved onto a different house, if the signs of it weren’t still incredibly present. The mouse shit in the most inconvenient of places, the crackers broken into, and finally, the icing on the cake, holes chewed in one of Eve’s favorite sweaters, that hadn’t made it out from the confines underneath the bed.

She’d gotten upset with Villanelle, then, because it had been Villanelle who had stripped her of the sweater and kicked it under the bed.

But mostly she’d been upset with herself.

She sat down, Antonia in her lap, and explained very clearly to a three year old who only blinked at her in response, why the mouse had to go.

“It’s gonna die?” Antonia had asked, and Eve wasn’t even sure if Antonia had known what “dead” even meant. 

“We’ll just catch it,” Eve told her, a lie side stepped from the truth. “And then we’ll take it to the park and let it go.”

The only reason she’d been able to have this conversation was because Villanelle was away for work. In retrospect, she’d been trapping her own mouse, killing it, releasing it.

The traps were moved into the open. Eve chose more human ones, for Antonia’s sake, but really, the most perplexing, perhaps annoying part was…

She never caught it.

.

What the fuck.

Eve shifts, banging her body against the small, confined space. “What,” she breathes, already hyperventilating, “the FUCK?” She yells it, wants to scream it. Maybe she does, after a moment. “You fucking piece of shit.” What the fuck is this? Eve bangs her head against the uncomfortable fabric, eyes blinking in the almost dark, save for the soft red glow of what can only be brake lights.

Because she’s tied up in a fucking _trunk_. 

She can hear the sound of Antonia wailing somewhere else, probably in the backseat. Whoever is driving attempts to drown out the sound of her, as Eve and Villanelle often used to do, with shitty French pop and a few annoyed grunts in what sounds like English. Eve can’t quite make the words out, what with the music and Antonia’s crying.

After a quick bout of claustrophobia and hyperventilating, Eve manages to control herself and her breathing. Logic returns to her in the form of a single thought — _trunk release_.

She scrapes her hands, tied in front of her, across the walls of the trunk, running her fingers over the surface in almost darkness. She can’t feel anything. There’s nothing that might be a trunk release, and hey, maybe she made the damn things up. Except she’s certain she’d seen too many car commercials detailing this exact feature. “Fucking European cars,” she mutters, after searching for what feels like the third time for the release.

There isn’t one.

What would Villanelle do? 

The thought comes unbidden, immediately serving only to make Eve ache with a kind of longing she hasn’t felt in a very long time. She _left_ Villanelle. Instead of talking, instead of trying to understand — she _left_. And now, she’s left herself for dead.

“If I make it out of this,” Eve whispers, somewhat to herself, somewhat to some higher power she doesn’t believe in, “I’ll go back to her. I promise.” She won’t _run_ , she won’t shy away. She’ll confront her murderous wife as she should, and she’ll face the consequences if need be. 

Villanelle would — Villanelle wouldn’t have gotten herself into this in the _first place_ , Eve, but that’s not the point. Villanelle would…

Eve shifts, pushing her head toward the backseat of the car, her feet toward the trunk. She angles her foot against where the brake light is, presses her toes tentatively against it, and kicks.

Nothing happens, at first.

Eve kicks, waits to see if the car stops or if she gets a bark of an order from the driver. Nothing, except Antonia starts wailing even louder. “That’s my fucking girl,” Eve mutters, and then she kicks again. Again. Again. Harder. 

It takes probably twenty kicks. Eve’s chest heaves as she catches her breath, but from the inside, the brake light starts to give, and Eve’s vigor renews — she kicks harder. 

On her last kick, her foot shoves straight through the hole where the brake light used to be. Eve can’t help but let out a relieved, “Yes!” before she shuffles around, attempting to peek through it. It’s dark outside, the middle of the night surely, and all Eve can see are fields. Fields and nothing. No cars, not another soul in sight. 

As she attempts to squeeze her arms through the hole and reach the trunk latch, the car begins to slow, pulling over to the side of the road. 

Eve stops what she’s doing and shrinks back into the trunk. She’s caught anyway, what with the missing brake light. As she shifts back toward the backseat, she feels something poking into her. Eve rushes to grab whatever the object is —

Her hand closes around a handle. A screwdriver. 

Adrenaline kicks in now. She holds the screwdriver tight against her stomach, waiting. The music from the front of the car cuts out, and she can clearly hear Antonia’s crying; it’s softer now, a few sad sniffles breaking up the desperate keening. The sound of a car door opening, then footsteps on gravel. 

A shadow passes over the hole Eve created. A muttered, “You must be kidding,” from a man, voice thick with an accent Eve immediately places: Russian.

The trunk opens. Eve pretends to be asleep. Wait. Wait. She breathes shallowly, waits until he grabs her by the forearm, attempting to lift her out, and then she—

She lunges at him with the screwdriver, managing to plunge it directly into his upper arm. The man howls as Eve loses her balance on the edge of the car. She falls hard into the dirt and gravel, landing on her shoulder, still bound by her hands and ankles. There’s no way she’s running away like this, but she tries anyway.

Hopping alongside the car, Eve barely pays attention to the man. Fuck this, fuck the zip ties, fuck everything. She only has eyes for Antonia, who watches her from the back window with wide, excited eyes. Eve opens the door as Antonia screams for her, chanting sobbing nonsense before throwing herself at Eve. Tucked into her arms is Mr. Lion, squeezed between Eve and Antonia. 

Eve holds her, tight, and doesn’t even flinch at the _click_ she hears behind her.

Straightening, Eve stands up, holding Antonia in front of her, hands on the girl’s shoulders.

The man points a gun at them and steps closer. As soon as Eve can make out his face in the darkness, she shakes her head. Of course. The man she’d found Villanelle with in the park. Graying hair, bear-like physique. Konstantin.

“You,” she says.

He shrugs, the gun steady in his hands. “Yes, me.” As if that makes it better.

She meets his faze, not bothering to look at the gun. “Are you going to kill us?”

“If I were, I would have done it by now.”

Fair point. “So, what, you’re going to hand us over to the Twelve, they’ll use us to reign in Villanelle, and _then_ they’ll kill us.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you see how that’s basically just killing us?”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Why not?”

Konstantin doesn’t respond. Instead, he lets out a long sigh. 

“She’s five,” Eve starts, and she has no idea where any of this comes from. “She was born on November twenty-second, 2015. She’ll be starting first grade next year. She’s so, so smart. Already speaks three languages.”

“Four,” Antonia corrects, looking up to gaze at Eve.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay.” Eve looks at Konstantin. “Villanelle said you had a daughter.”

“She was lying.”

“I don’t think so,” Eve counters. “Because I met her. Older than Antonia, right? She’s a teenager. That must be a handful.”

Finally, a chuckle. Konstantin nods. “She is the worst.”

“You have kids, you know?” Eve tightens her grip on Antonia’s shoulders, holds her closer. “You watched your wife give birth. You know who watched me? Villanelle. She was there, held my hand through all nineteen hours of labor. I almost died, at one point, and Villanelle, she… She cried a lot. She’s _human_.” Eve watches a flicker of doubt cross Konstantin’s gaze. “You care about her, too, I know you do. I could tell when I met you.”

Eve remembers the familiarity between them, at the park. The way Villanelle used to complain about her boss, yet always talk about him with an annoyed kind of fondness. Warmth. Not in the way Eve talks about Carolyn. More in the way Eve used to talk about Bill. 

“Let us go,” she pleads. “Let us go and then you won’t have this on your conscience.”

Konstantin says, “They will kill my family.”

There is no pleading with a mousetrap, Eve thinks idly. You are either caught, or you aren’t. “Villanelle won’t even blink when she murders them.”

The shred of hope disappears, the minute she makes the threat. Konstantin steps forward, gun in hand, and grabs Eve roughly by the arm. Antonia shrieks, holding fast to Eve’s legs. “Let’s go,” Konstantin says, shoving Eve toward the backseat. He opens the door, pushing them both inside. He leans in as they adjust. “Hands.”

Eve holds her hands up. As Konstantin cuts the zip ties, she spits in his face. He sighs. 

He adjusts her so she’s pressed against the back of the headrest, pulling her arms behind her back. Eve’s shoulder screams with pain as he re-zip ties her hands behind her this time. 

“Villanelle does not care about you like you want her to,” Konstantin tells her, pulling away once she’s been rebound. He stands in the doorway, watching as Eve sits back, wincing. Eve can’t stop imagining killing him, with every word he says. She’s angry, consumed by it, and if she had enough spit in her fucking mouth she’d aim it right back at his face again. “She can’t feel things like you and I,” he continues. “She is too hard. Not malleable.”

“That’s not true.”

“She’s faking it. All of it. She wants so badly to be like the rest of us, but the truth is, she’s broken—”

“That’s not true!” Eve’s words come in a desperate yell, fading quickly into the silence of the night. 

Villanelle wrote vows for their wedding. No cheesy, googled shit. Even Eve had to at least take a little inspiration from Richard Siken. More than _I promise to have and to hold_. Eve, if I could spend the rest of my life waking up to you, I would need nothing else. Eve, I vow to love you in the way that only I can: wholly, monumentally, completely. I vow to stay true. Nowhere within Villanelle’s vows were words such as _honesty_ , so nowhere did Villanelle break them.

Villanelle said _I love you, Eve_ with her mouth, pressing soft kisses on Eve’s jaw while they watched movies. _I love you, Eve_ , holding her hand tight in the delivery room, refusing to let go, even when it hurt. _I love you, Eve_ , in the way she looked at her over Antonia’s shoulder when they played in the backyard. _I love you, Eve_ , even in the darkest moments. 

“Maybe you are right,” Konstantin admits. “But regardless, she is dangerous. You would let your daughter around her?”

“She’s Villanelle’s daughter, too,” Eve says before she realizes she’s saying it. She’s corrected so many people over the years. People who assume Villanelle is a well-dressed nanny. Teachers and daycare workers who give them twice the looks. But Antonia has Villanelle’s wit, her sharp tongue. Villanelle’s intelligence and Villanelle’s expressions. She might have Eve’s hair and Eve’s face, but Antonia also has Villanelle, right down to her stupid penchant for violence.

Antonia launches herself across Eve’s lap at Konstantin, and it’s all Eve can do to scream, “No!” as Konstantin reflexively raises the gun.

He doesn’t shoot.

Antonia pummels him with tiny little fists, and Eve feels tears prick at her eyes. With little effort, Konstantin picks Antonia up and stuffs her into the backseat before closing the door. 

“Watch her,” is all he says, as he walks around the car back to the front seat. He lands hard in it, letting out a breath, and starts the car. Eve lets her head fall back, as Antonia shivers next to her. 

.

“I need aspirin.”

“You need to keep quiet.”

Remembering their conversation in the park, Eve feels mean. He hit her, for fuck’s sake. “Office parties, huh?” 

“It was not personal.”

“That’s what assholes say,” Eve fires back. 

Konstantin shakes his head, muttering something in Russian. Eve’s heard enough of it from Villanelle to know he’s cursing. He glances back at her in the rearview mirror, no doubt checking if she’s somehow managed to slip the stupid zip ties around her wrists. She hasn’t, but she’s trying. She can feel the skin there ripping already, rubbing raw. She’s seen one too many videos on how to break out of these, if only she could actually remember them.

Then there’s the matter of Antonia. 

The little girl in question shakes next to Eve, uncharacteristically quiet. Eve leans closer to her, pressing her lips to Antonia’s head. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m scared,” Antonia whimpers, her voice tiny. Barely heard over the rumble of the shitty car’s engine.

“I know, baby.” Eve wants to wrap Antonia in her arms, hold her close. She can’t, not like this. But she does notice that Antonia isn’t bound at all, just strapped in with the seatbelt. Idly, she notices her own lack of safety equipment; if they hit something, Eve’s surely flying headfirst through the window.

Better not dwell on that thought. 

It’s dark. Must be the middle of the night. Eve strains to see anything other than countryside out the window. “Ant,” she whispers. “Do you remember seeing anything? Outside? 

“You were gone,” she whines. “Your head. There’s blood.”

“I know. I’m okay, I promise. Do you remember what time it is?”

Antonia shakes her head, sniffling. 

“Hey, hold onto me, okay? Can you do that?” Antonia reaches for her, wrapping a tiny hand around the spot above Eve’s knee. “Yes, exactly like that. Imagine I’m giving you a really big, tight hug, okay?”

“What about Mama?”

“Mama, too,” Eve says, despite how much she wants to strangle Villanelle right now. Konstantin, too, that’s for sure, but Villanelle, as well, so she can watch the life drain. She’s going to kill Villanelle, when she gets the chance. 

Not if she dies, though.

Come on, Eve. Make a move. Come up with a plan. _You’re a fucking spy, for fuck’s sake_. 

The car is bare, save for a bag tucked under the glove compartment in the passenger seat. That probably has a gun, if Konstantin is smart. Eve doesn’t know him, but Villanelle does. She trusts him, even. Maybe. Enough to meet with him in parks with their daughter. 

“How many times did you see my daughter?” Eve asks, raising her voice. 

Konstantin sighs. “A few.”

“Get off on it, do you?”

“No,” he says immediately. “It was not like that.”

“Then what was it?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why would she let you spend time around her?”

“You would have to ask her,” Konstantin says, and he’s right. Konstantin reaches for the cupholder and digs into a small plastic bag with his fingers. He finds what he’s looking for: a mint. He pushes it into his mouth and chomps loudly, crushing it within his teeth.

As she watches his jaw work, Eve has an idea.

“Ant,” she says, quiet. “You remember when Mama was sick, that one time? And I had to give her medicine every few hours.”

Antonia scrunches her brow. Thinks really, really hard. Finally, she nods. 

“Let’s play pretend,” Eve whispers. “Can you do that?”

Wide eyes shine with tears. “Yes.”

Eve nods. This can work. This _will_ work. “Okay, you asshole,” she says, raising her voice. “Are you ready to kill a kid?”

Konstantin’s eyes immediately shift to the rearview mirror. “What?”

“How long has it been, since you knocked me unconscious?”

He shifts in his seat, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Eve can’t tell if he’s nervous, but she sure as fuck hopes he is. “A few hours. We are going back to London.”

“Her blood sugar,” Eve says, and her voice wavers just the right amount. “She’s diabetic, and she needs to eat.”

“I don’t feel well,” Antonia adds, and Eve wants to kiss her right on the head. 

Konstantin grunts, shaking his head. He’s having an internal debate, it seems. “Will she be okay through the night?”

“If by ‘okay,’ you mean ‘die,’ then sure.” Okay, that was over the top. Eve leans forward to add, “All we need is a convenience store. Some snacks, juice. Something quick.”

Silence. Konstantin keeps driving, says nothing. Eve finally gives up, leaning back. Antonia shifts against her, resting her head in Eve’s lap, her small hand once again on Eve’s knee. He’s calling their bluff; surely he’ll wait them out, see if Antonia actually passes out like Eve said she would. The darkness passes them by as they drive, and Eve’s knee deep into another plot to get out of this when she notices the car slowly, taking an exit.

She doesn’t say anything, afraid of scaring Konstantin off. They pull into the parking lot of a small gas station, and honestly? It might even be the same one they’d stopped at on the drive to Strasbourg. To Eve, all these side of the road places look the same. Still, she says nothing as Konstantin pulls into a spot well away from the front door, out of the illuminated neon lights of the welcome sign.

“What does she need?” he asks, and Eve honestly hadn’t gotten that far.

“Um,” she says. Antonia is asleep in her lap, by now. “Orange juice. Not artificial, the real stuff. Granola bars. Something like that.” He nods, turns off the car, and opens the door. Just as he slides out, Eve says, “Wait!” He looks back at her. “I have to piss.”

“Do it there,” he says, getting out.

Eve presses her face in the space between the headrest and the frame of the car. “Then it’s just gonna smell the whole rest of the way.”

“I will put the windows down.”

“I don’t have to pee. I have to shit, okay? Jesus. And she’s probably going to have to pee, also.”

Konstantin sighs once again, pulling his phone from his pocket. He glances at it, probably checking the time, before he says, “I have a gun, okay? There is no one else here besides the poor sap behind the counter. I do not care if I have to shoot him.”

Casualties. Eve can work with that. “Sure, yeah. Shoot him. I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Konstantin shuts the front door, pulls out a switchblade, and then opens the back, gesturing for Eve to get out. She does, struggling only slightly with her hands bound behind her. In the process, Antonia lifts her head up, blinking sleepily. 

“We’re getting some food for you,” Eve tells her, as she turns around and Konstantin grabs the zip tie on her wrist. After a moment, the pressure gives, and Eve brings her hands around and rubs at her wrists. She reaches out to Antonia, who clambers out of the car and immediately wraps her arms around Eve’s legs. Eve holds her, hoping this isn’t the last time. Eve pulls back, asks, “You need to go to the loo?”

A firm nod from Antonia. She glances at Konstantin, craning her neck. Eve does, too, and finds him looking slightly fondly at her daughter.

She wraps an arm around Antonia’s shoulders, and the three of them walk toward the store.

.

The bathroom is nothing.

“Fuck,” Eve breathes, while Antonia stands by the small, shitty little sink. “Fuck!”

“Fuck,” Antonia repeats, and Eve doesn’t even have it in her heart to glare.

“Yeah. Fuck.”

She’s out of options. This was it — scramble out a window and just… Run. Get far away, camp out in the middle of nowhere. But there’s no window in here. There’s not even a backdoor in the stupid place. Just the front double doors, a lazy teenager behind the front counter that Eve doesn’t want Konstantin to shoot just to make a point. There’s nothing left, except to get into the car and let Konstantin drive them to who knows where.

To who knows what.

“Umma,” Antonia says, close to tears again. “I wanna go home.”

“Me, too,” Eve murmurs, pulling Antonia close. “We’ll get there, I promise.”

And then Eve has an idea. 

She shifts, holding Antonia by her shoulders at arm’s length. “I’m going to need you to be a very big girl, okay?”

Antonia shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She holds Mr. Lion by an arm, pressing him to her face. She half hides behind him. 

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Would I lie to you?”

“Mama says you lie a lot,” Antonia points out. A tear falls down her cheek, and Eve quickly wipes it away with her thumb. She rests her hand on Antonia’s face, fingers curling around the back of her neck.

“Well, Mama’s a liar, too,” Eve teases, finally feeling the thick sensation in her throat. She clears it, but it doesn’t leave, only grows, until her own tears prick at her eyes. 

“You’re crying,” Antonia whispers. She reaches up, wipes at Eve’s face, and they’re just the two of them, wiping at each other’s eyes with dirty hands. 

Eve sniffs, chokes it back. “It’s okay,” she says, for probably the millionth time tonight. “We’re going to play hide and seek.”

“I thought we were playing pretend.”

“That, too. We’re going to walk out this door, walk out the front, and as soon as we get there, I want you to run, okay? Run and hide in a really, really good hiding place.”

Antonia starts shaking her head. “I don’t want to play.”

“We have to play, okay? We’re going to play, and I promise, I’m gonna find you.”

“No!” Antonia’s voice reaches piercing levels of hysteria. “No! I don’t want to play anything anymore!”

“Antonia, Antonia, hey—”

“No! I want Mama!”

Antonia starts thrashing in her arms, and Eve grabs her, holds her tight against her chest. It hurts, the way Antonia hits and claws at her. “No,” Eve whispers harshly. “You are a big girl. You are not going to act like this here.” She attempts to muffle Antonia’s frustrated screams by pressing her face against her chest, holding her there. Tight. She never wants to let go. “ _Ty moy malen’kiy l’venok_? Huh?” 

Antonia shakes her head. “Only Mama calls me that.”

“I’m doing it,” Eve says, pulling back and pressing her open palm to Antonia’s cheek. She points at Mr. Lion. “You are so, so brave. Like him. _Ty moy malen’kiy l’venok.”_ Eve repeats it, again and again, until Antonia isn’t so much crying but blubbering. Finally, she lifts Antonia’s face up. “That’s okay. We don’t have to play.”

Antonia sniffles. Eve stands to grab a few paper towels and wipe at Antonia’s face. A knock interrupts them, too quick to be someone demanding to use the room. Eve grabs Antonia’s hand and opens the door. Of course, Konstantin is standing outside of it. He glances at Antonia, no doubt seeing her red cheeks. Then at Eve, whose cheeks aren’t much paler.

“Let’s go,” Eve says, brushing past him. Antonia follows, keeping close, and Eve doesn’t bother looking behind her to see if Konstantin is there.

They push through the double doors. Antonia squeezes Eve’s hand. Eve looks down, and Antonia says, “You’ll find me?”

Eve stares. Then, checks to see Konstantin nodding at the cashier who doesn’t spare him a second glance. Almost five feet behind them, not even through the doors yet.

“Yes,” Eve says. “I’ll find you. I promise. You remember our address? You can tell someone, if you need to?”

With a final tilt of her chin, Antonia nods. Firmly. Eve believes her.

Eve realizes Antonia is much more like Villanelle than she thought.

Konstantin doesn’t realize it until it’s too late. Antonia’s hand slips from Eve’s, Mr. Lion tucked into her arms, and she bolts to the right, skirting around the corner of the store and out of sight in less than five seconds. She’s a runner, Eve knows, and she’ll keep running until she finds somewhere to hunker down. Eve takes off to the left; if Konstantin wants either of them, he’s going to have to choose, and Eve banks on him choosing her. 

She’s right, of course. He runs after her, breathing heavily, and Eve’s sure that she’ll make it a distance away when she hears the _bang_ of a gun. 

Gravel next to her explodes.

Eve hits the ground, hands shielding her head, and Konstantin reaches her, huffing and puffing. “You are sneaky,” he says, and it’s almost a laugh. “Where did she go?”

“You won’t find her,” Eve tells him. “The last time we played hide and seek, we lost her for hours. She’s very good.”

This time, he does laugh. “Mine is like that, too.”

Oh no. Now Eve’s sure she’s going to die.

“Get up,” he tells her. “We’re going.”

Eve does. She glances to the store, hoping to somehow make out a little shadow in the light from it, but she can’t see anything. Wherever she is, Eve hopes she’s at least safe. Not terribly scared. Just a mouse, perfectly side stepping a trap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love u guys very much. thank u for reading. trying to bang this fucker out. let's go!
> 
> @dykefruit on twitter for snippets or the opportunity to bully me. 
> 
> kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> (i guess antonia is... free now)


	10. lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Objectively, critics would agree that she ruined this by attempting to make things normal, yet to continue doing what she does. Killing, stealing, lying. No normal marriage has these things. If she were talking to anyone other than Eve, they might rush to fill the silence, reassure her that she didn’t ruin anything. But Eve is Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: torture. graphic descriptions of violence. being mean to welsh people (i'm sorry... villanelle gets mean when she is hurt)

In movies, it’s fairly easy to escape once you’ve been trapped.

There’s a faulty doorknob, or a spoon that allows you to dig through the floor. A weapon of some kind, to be used when the door opens and your captor steps in, unaware. Hit them, hit them hard, and make a run for it. That kind of thing. In movies, the captive is agitated and wanting. Villanelle imagines herself in the pivotal role of a spy thriller, or something gruesome, and falls easily into character. 

She stalks the perimeter of her cell like a puma at a zoo — long, sweeping strides, huffs of impatience, a delirious boredom. She’s never been to a zoo, but she knows predators. She knows they do not last too long in captivity, a brain too quick for their own good. Villanelle, she paces, back and forth, and only occasionally glances through the tiny window of the door to the empty hallway. 

They haven’t given her anything to eat, either, as her stomach reminds her on possibly the hundredth circuit. It grumbles, the vibration loud in the silence.

Rhian is basically a friend, at this point, visiting, by Villanelle’s count, almost every thirty minutes. Always, with the all black, dreary outfits. Always, with the sneer of disdain as she peeks in at Villanelle and refuses to open the door. Villanelle has stopped pounding against the door when she comes, mostly because Rhian’s grin of satisfaction became too much, even for her. And really, Villanelle should sleep. It’s the middle of the night, her eyes are heavy, but she fears…

She fears a lot.

It’s not a feeling she’s comfortable sitting with, fear. Anatomically, she’s not built for it. The chemicals run marathons through her brain, finding everywhere and nowhere within the synapses, and usually, she easily brushes them aside. No, thank you, no fear today. Usually, she finds them easily enough to swat. Tonight, however, she can’t sleep.

Probably better if she doesn’t, because a few hours into captivity, there’s some shuffling, some yelling. A grunt, definitely from Rhian, and the sound of a body falling limp to the floor. 

Villanelle glues herself to the window, just fast enough to catch Rhian closing the door of the room next door. Slightly ruffled. Good, it must’ve been a good fight. Villanelle says nothing as Rhian slowly lifts her chin and meets her eyes. A sneer. A _gotcha_. 

Terror floods. It has to be Eve.

Rhian leaves, so Villanelle presses her ear to the wall and listens. No signs of life, no groans of pain in Eve’s throaty voice. 

“Eve?”

Villanelle’s voice sounds like… Someone else’s. Shaky, tired. Not at all like she wants it to be. She clears her throat, not daring to repeat herself. Can’t play her cards too quickly, like this. If whoever isn’t Eve, then there’s a problem. Well, if the person _is_ Eve, she’s also got a problem. Because then where is Antonia?

Back against the wall, Villanelle slides down until she hits the cool concrete. Tip her head back, let it rest there. She listens to Eve (it has to be Eve, because who else would it be?) catch her breath. She imagines Eve pushing herself up, sliding across the floor, resting her back right on the other side of the same wall.

It’s very cinematic, she thinks, because if they were in a movie right now, the shot would be framed as this: the wall splitting the screen, each of them with their backs to it, mirror images of one another. 

“Are you going to talk to me?” Villanelle tries, and this time, her voice is stronger. More even. Less used and less terrified. Because she has elected not to be scared, actually. That’s just not how she’s going to do this.

The ceiling is textured — she realizes after staring at it for a long, long time. She could scrape at it with her fingernails, let the paint chip off in flakes and cover her. 

She taps her head against the wall. Then again, harder. A soft _thump, thump, thump_ that she knows Eve can hear. 

“I can masturbate very loudly, you know,” and it’s true, Eve knows this. But the other half of truth is that Villanelle doesn’t even _want_ to. Her, notoriously in the mood, and she can’t even bring herself to make this stupid captivity situation into the joke that it is.

See, she’s laughing now. That wasn’t so hard.

The joke doesn’t land on the other side of the wall, though. No laugh, no hint of anything. Nothing comes. Just a devastating and total silence. 

She decides to break the fourth wall of her own story and stand up, stretching her arms above her head. The room is like her cell from prison. She never liked prison (in the movie version of this, there would be a flashback to prison, of course, of course); the food was terrible, the people didn’t appreciate her enough, and it reminded her of a past she wanted to forget. She’d stalked the solitary confinement cells back then, too, except there wasn’t a silent woman on the other side of the wall keeping her company. 

That’s what Eve is doing, definitely. Keeping her company.

Villanelle begins to think she imagined Eve showing up, but then there’s a noise. Just a shuffle, a scrape of shoe against concrete. A sigh, almost. Nothing recognizable, which is worrisome. Shouldn’t she recognize Eve’s loud sighs?

“I will tell you a story,” she announces to nobody. Because she is breaking the fourth wall now. She imagines another person in the cell with her, sitting in the corner. That person is not Eve, definitely not, but they will have to do. As she opens her mouth to begin spinning the tale (we are, of course, nearing the part of the movie where everyone sits around a campfire, telling stories from home, from _before_ ), there’s an interruption.

A sharp, annoyed, “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

That was it, the entire time? Open her mouth, Eve tells her to close it. Villanelle twists away from the imaginary Eve and faces the real one, behind a smooth, plain wall. “I want to tell you,” she says.

“I don’t _care_ , Villanelle.”

Villanelle’s name from her lips. Magic. 

“You remember when we had sex at Antonia’s school?”

Eve huffs, exasperated. “No.”

“You don’t? I did that thing where I—”

“Okay, yes, whatever.” A pause. She imagines Eve running a hand through her hair. Is she hurt? Is she bloodied? Villanelle knows she is beautiful, despite it all. “I remember.”

“I told you then that I did not do well in school.”

“Yes.”

“What I didn’t tell you,” Villanelle says slowly, inching to the wall. She nears it, pressing an open palm against cool drywall. Villanelle pretends she can feel Eve’s energy through it, pretends she is pressing her hand in the exact same spot. “Is that I killed one of my teacher’s husbands.”

“You—”

Of course, the gears are turning. Eve’s brow, a little scrunched. On more than one occasion, as Eve completed the crossword on the other side of the couch, Villanelle’s feet in her lap, Villanelle had reached over and smoothed her thumb across the spot between Eve’s eyebrows. She’d kiss Villanelle, usually, and the two of them would end up breathing hot into each other’s mouths, hands between legs and teeth scraping against tongue. 

“Do you want to hear the rest?” Villanelle is still annoying, like this. It’s one of her best traits.

Another sigh. This time, recognizable in its irritation. “Yes.”

“I am very good with languages, as you know.” Villanelle presses her back to the wall once again. “I wasn’t always. I pick things up quickly, though. I was in and out of foster care as a teenager. The Russian foster system was…” Nothing, if she’s being honest. Just nothing. “I started at a new school, when I was older. I… bonded with the French teacher there. Her name was Anna.”

Eve stays silent. Listening.

“She taught me French, German, English. I excelled because I wanted to impress her.”

“So you’ve always been like this?”

“Like what?”

She imagines Eve waving a hand, shrugging. “Eager to please.”

“I am not,” Villanelle huffs, grinning a bit, because she is. 

“Sure, yeah,” Eve replies. “Keep going.”

“Well, the short version is I killed her husband. Which I already said.”

“That’s— that’s it?” Eve sighs. “I was so invested, you just ruined the whole thing.”

“That’s what I do, yes? Ruin things.”

Villanelle is, of course, referring to now, not then. She’s not even being self pitying. She’s being honest. Objectively, critics would agree that _she_ ruined this by attempting to make things normal, yet to continue doing what she does. Killing, stealing, lying. No normal marriage has these things. If she were talking to anyone other than Eve, they might rush to fill the silence, reassure her that she didn’t _ruin_ anything. But Eve is Eve.

And Eve knows she’s right.

“I am… so mad at you,” Eve admits, soft. 

“I know.”

“But I…” and Eve doesn’t continue. Villanelle wants, desperately and unbidden, for her to say it. But I love you. But I still want you. But I… _something_. Nothing comes. “What was the point,” Eve says, “of the story?”

Oh. “No point,” Villanelle replies. “Just wanted to see if you would talk.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“But I’m also really pretty.” There, finally, that gets a laugh. Villanelle smiles, wide and hard enough to hurt her cheeks. “You agree, then,” she says, pushing her luck. 

“No, actually. You’re atrociously ugly.”

Villanelle gasps! “Take it back.”

“No,” Eve says simply, but Villanelle can hear her grinning.

Now this, this is the cinematic moment. Two sides of a single wall, laughing together, mending bridges. They laugh, then fall silent. Reflecting on the enormity of their dilemma. Now is where they make a plan, now that they’ve made up. What’s the plan, Eve?

The plan is… “Where is Antonia?”

Silence. Again. Eve, shared silence is getting very boring. Villanelle decides to focus on the _boring_ , because if she focuses on the answer, or lack thereof, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. She can’t… She can’t think the worst. But Eve would be crying, if she were dead, right? 

“I don’t know,” Eve says finally. Villanelle imagines her expression — the soft downturn of her lips. Her tired eyes, creased from age and smiling. Her smile, always beautiful and mesmerizing. Villanelle wants to rest her head on Eve’s shoulder, hold her hand tight.

“I don’t know where she is, either,” Villanelle says. “If that’s helpful.”

“You know it’s not.”

“I thought I would try.” Villanelle flattens her palms against the wall. “Are you sitting? What are you doing?”

“I’m… I’m sitting, yeah. Against the wall.”

“Me, too.” And now Eve knows this moment is cinematic, too. Like Villanelle needs her to. “Do you remember when she was two? And she was sick.”

“You had to work,” Eve says drily. “Now I know you were just off killing people.”

“I did a very bad job, that weekend. I was distracted.”

“Oh, so you got to be _distracted_ , while I stayed in a hospital room _alone_ , not knowing if you were going to miss the death of our daughter?”

“She—” _wasn’t going to die_ , but Villanelle didn’t know that, did she? She would’ve run, because it had been early and feelings were harder, in the beginning. Eve had needed her, but after the months after Antonia was born, their daughter falling sick was… almost too much. She’d been there for Eve, when Eve needed her, but this little life, this little girl who looked so much like Eve yet sounded so much like Villanelle, the thought of watching her go was too much.

“I am trying to admit that I am a bad person,” Villanelle says, matter-of-fact. Eve says nothing. Villanelle shifts, restless. “There are many times I should have been there, and I wasn’t.”

“Because you were off killing people.”

“And you were off being a super secret agent!”

“That’s not even—”

“We _both_ lied,” Villanelle reminds her. Eve doesn’t fight that, at least. “I want to be truthful, now.”

“Seven years too late.”

Is it really? Villanelle wishes she could see Eve’s face, wonders if she’d be able to read it. She’s gotten so good, over the years, at reading Eve. Other people, of course not, but Eve… Eve is hers. Has been hers. 

But before they can dive into true apologies, true reconciliation, there are footsteps. Two pairs, loud and close enough that Villanelle scrambles to her feet. They don’t come to her, however — they go to Eve’s room, open the door. A flash in front of Villanelle’s window. It’s Hélène, giving her a small, sad smile. 

“Eve?” Villanelle calls, holding eye contact with Hélène. 

“I’m here. The one with the bangs is with me.”

“You’ve been chatting,” Hélène points out.

Villanelle says, “Duh.” Then, for Eve’s benefit, she adds, “Her name is Ryan.”

A beat. “She didn’t like that,” Eve comments. “Wrong name?”

“I can’t remember it.” She hopes this doesn’t count against her as a lie. She told Eve she wanted to be truthful, now, but the name thing, it is a joke. 

There is more shuffling. Villanelle expects them to grab Eve, do something with her, but then the door to Eve’s room shuts, and Rhian is coming to Villanelle’s instead. She walks in with a gun, and Villanelle wants so desperately to lunge for her, but knows all it would take is Rhian’s arm raising, a trigger pulled, _blam_. Villanelle, dead on the floor.

She doesn’t want to die today. 

“Here is how this is going to go,” Hélène tells them, keeping her voice clear and loud. “We want the witness. Hugo Turner.” Silence. Villanelle remembers the meerkat-looking man just fine. Has no idea where he is, where he would be. Hélène continues, “I would appreciate you telling us.”

“I don’t know,” Villanelle says.

“Not you. Her.”

Oh. They want Eve to talk. Flashes of torture pop into Villanelle’s head — Eve’s beautiful fingers, broken and bent. Eve’s head, slammed against the ground. Agitated, Villanelle shifts her weight. She’s weighing the options once again. Maybe she _could_ reach Rhian before Rhian pulled the trigger. 

“I don’t know,” Eve says.

Villanelle is about to lunge when Rhian surprises her — she raises the gun and pulls the trigger. 

The bullet tears through Villanelle’s shoulder. A perfect, non-lethal hit. And _fuck_ it hurts. Villanelle drops to her knees, right hand immediately finding the new hole punch through her left side. She presses into it, gritting her teeth, and pretends not to care as Eve’s voice, frantic and _worried_ , finally, calls through the wall, “Villanelle? Are you okay?”

“I am…” Enraged. Feral. _Upset_. “I am fine.”

Rhian grins, a shiny crop of too-white teeth. Villanelle glares at her. 

“I will ask again,” Hélène says, like nothing has even happened. “Where is MI6 keeping Hugo Turner?”

“And I’ll tell you again,” Eve retorts. “I don’t fucking know.”

Villanelle is expecting another shot, maybe. She doesn’t move fast enough to counteract Rhian’s advance. Rhian delivers a sharp kick to Villanelle’s face, slamming her into the floor. She tastes blood almost instantly, wonders if her jaw is broken. Her cheek hits the ground hard, the concrete unforgiving. She could do this all day, Eve, don’t worry about her. 

“Okay!” Eve’s voice. Farther away, now.

Rhian does not stop. _Good for her_ , Villanelle thinks, as another kick hits her in the gut. _Bad for me_. 

Villanelle wants to tell Eve she’s fine, but she opens her mouth and blood comes out instead, sputtering as she coughs. Eve calls her name again, louder, more desperate, and Villanelle laughs because it is funny. Moments ago, Eve hated her. Now, as Villanelle chokes on her own blood, as Rhian kicks her once, twice, Eve is calling for her. Caring for her.

“Stop,” Eve says. “Tell her to stop!” This is the same voice she uses with Antonia, when Antonia refuses to adhere to the rules of propriety. No messes, no whining, no tantrums. 

“Tell us what we need to know,” Hélène says, but at the sound of her voice, Rhian pauses.

Villanelle finally manages to draw in a breath. It hurts, really hurts. She pushes half up on shaky arms, twisting to lay on her back. She stares up at those stupid bangs. 

“You’re so ugly,” she tells Rhian.

“Your teeth are red,” Rhian says back.

“That’s because I am bleeding internally. Idiot.” Did no one teach her how the human body works? Is she this sloppy when she kills? They are giving Villanelle up for this? 

“Villanelle,” Eve calls. “Are you okay?”

“Definitely not.” But Villanelle holds a thumbs up in Eve’s direction, a gesture Eve cannot and will not see. 

But there’s a laugh, almost. Eve knows. They have their own sort of language, and have for years now. 

“She’s dead,” Rhian says, and she’s got _jokes_.

“You are funny,” Villanelle says, wagging a finger. “In the way sad little stray dogs are funny.” That earns her another kick, this time to the pelvis. Villanelle groans, spits out some blood. 

Eve’s voice, through the wall. “What is she doing?”

“She is kicking me, Eve.”

“Can’t you just get up?”

Sure. Yeah. Of course, Eve, she will just get up. Villanelle tries that, just to say that she has, but everything hurts. Pain spirals through not only her diaphragm, but now her head, aching in tiny little bursts, sharp and unaccounted for, and her shoulder, where the bullet went through and through. She manages to shift into a seated position, turned toward Rhian, just so the next blow does not come as a surprise. The next blow, however, turns out to be a knife in Rhian’s hand, glinting with both the promise of more pain and expertise. “Hey Eve?” Villanelle says, loud. “Can you tell them where meerkat boy is?”

“I don’t know where he is!”

“Make something up!”

“Do you not realize they are right here, listening to us?”

Rhian walks over, then, and Villanelle makes a tired, shoddy attempt to swipe at her ankles. She gets rewarded with a hand in her hair, tugging it by the roots. Then, the sharp prick of the knife against her throat. “I want nothing more,” Rhian whispers into her ear, “than to slit your stupid fucking throat.”

“Your accent is so ugly,” Villanelle mutters. “Get it over with.”

There is no way they would let Rhian kill her, but she is not really in the mood to tempt any kind of fate these days. As the pressure increases just slightly against the skin of her neck, she leans into it, gritting her teeth. She grabs Rhian’s wrist, twists it, and manages to get Rhian’s hand out of her own hair. She grabs for whatever she can, twists, and Rhian lets out an involuntary cry. It’s incentive, igniting inside of Villanelle’s chest with a grim flood of fight or flight.

Despite the pain of… _everything_ , Villanelle chooses fight.

She lunges for Rhian this time, her breath pounding in her chest like an animal trapped, and in return, gets a slash to her forearm. It stings, but it’s also nothing. Left arm limp at her side, Villanelle swings, a right hook blocked by Rhian’s forearm. They’re matched, like this, will Villanelle a significant step behind. Behind Rhian, Hélène watches them from the hallway, through the crack in the door. Villanelle can’t tell whether she looks impressed or disgusted.

Probably the latter, because she pulls out a gun and points it in what Villanelle can only guess is Eve’s direction.

Villanelle stops. Dead. Cold. Rhian punches her in the face.

More blood in her mouth, like she didn’t already have enough.

“Tell me where he is,” Hélène says, for what sounds like the final time. Except Villanelle doesn’t hear Eve’s response. Rhian is too busy kicking the ever living shit out of her. One, right after the other. And for good measure, she leans down, where Villanelle coughs against the floor, and steps on Villanelle’s left hand. One of her fingers definitely breaks. 

Rhian leaves, closes the door behind her. Villanelle turns over, lets out a weak cough that tears through her. Hurts. God, it fucking hurts.

There’s a shuffle. The door opens again, and footsteps. Villanelle blinks, but she can’t see. Not yet. Not now. The slams shut, locks. Then, hands on her. Villanelle flinches reflexively, but the hands are soft. The hands are familiar. It’s Eve, and Eve says, “You’re not dead, are you?”

Villanelle opens her eyes. Gazes right into Eve’s. “I am impossible to kill,” she manages, but her voice is a wheeze. Not even loud. The latter half of the sentence dissolves into another coughing fit. “Did you tell them?”

“Yeah,” Eve responds. 

Nodding, Villanelle curls up into a ball, shrugging off Eve’s hands on her. She holds herself, because Eve isn’t _doing it_. She lets out a breath, stares at the concrete. Eve sits cross-legged next to her, hovering and unsure. Just hold me, Villanelle wants to whisper. Please, just hold me.

Eve, it turns out, doesn’t need the prompting. After a moment of deliberation, she says, “Come here,” and tugs at Villanelle’s shoulders. Together, they scoot closer to the wall, Eve situating Villanelle so she’s half curled in Eve’s lap, her head on Eve’s thigh. Fingers land in her hair, and Eve runs them across Villanelle’s scalp. It’s a routine they’ve done countless times — on the couch, while watching a movie. Cuddling, post-sex, hands in each other’s hair. The times Eve braided it for her, the times Eve washed it for her. 

“I’m sorry,” Villanelle whispers.

“I know.” But Eve doesn’t know what Villanelle is sorry for. Not really. 

Eventually, Villanelle falls asleep, the taste of blood in her mouth.

.

She wakes up to the sound of scraping.

Did she really sleep through the best part of the movie? She didn’t even help make the plan. She smacks her lips, wipes at the red drool at the corner of her mouth, only to find Eve standing next to the door, looking like she definitely didn’t sleep at all. “What time is it?”

“Do I look like I’m wearing a watch?”

Villanelle deserves that. She watches Eve from her spot on the floor. Even like this, harried and sleepless, Eve looks devastating. 

“You look sexy,” she says, because she has a death wish.

Eve doesn’t even look at her. “Not right now, okay?”

Villanelle nods. She goes to stand, but pauses as pain sears through her. Everywhere, but mostly her shoulder, her gut, and her… hand. Villanelle holds out her fingers, flexes them. Feels the sharp hit of pain in her left ring finger. Where her ring should be, but she’d left it at home, after she’d noticed Eve gone. The finger, now bruised and swollen, couldn’t hold the ring if it tried. Fitting. 

No time for flirting, okay. “Do you really not know where Antonia is?”

Eve stops whatever she’s doing and turns to her. “No. I don’t.”

“Where did you last see her? Do they have her?”

Eve sighs. Her shoulders, once tense, fall. “I don’t know.”

“What _do_ you know?”

“I don’t need the third degree, okay? I fucked up. Let’s get over it.”

“Like we are getting over my fuck up. Of course. Okay.”

“Look,” Eve says, and Villanelle is expecting anger, a snarl, even, but instead, Eve looks close to tears. “I… I don’t know where she is.” And then Eve tells her. All of it. Konstantin, the gas station, the game. Villanelle listens from the floor, not saying a word. 

When Eve falls silent, Villanelle lets out a breath. Finally, she says, “Antonia is very smart.”

“I know.”

“She knows our address.”

“Yeah.”

Villanelle would get up, if she could do it without wincing. She would get up and reach for Eve’s hand, and maybe Eve would even let her hold it. Maybe Eve would let Villanelle hold _her_ , wrap Eve in her long arms, hold her tightly like Eve did with her last night. Okay. So Villanelle gets up, and she barely even winces (because, she is telling herself, she is more than the pain), and she crosses the room.

She opens her arms. Well, her right arm. Eve falls into her, shaking. She’s not crying, not really, but she shakes, and Villanelle holds her tight. She ignores the way her torso screams with the added pressure. She holds Eve, not because it’s what she’s supposed to do, but because she wants to. 

Needs to.

Eve steps back, sniffing, and acts like a teenager, slinking away from Villanelle like none of it ever happened. Villanelle can’t help but think that was the last hug they’ll ever have.

“I should…” Eve trails off. She looks up at Villanelle, searches her face. “God, you look terrible.”

It’s familiar ground. Easy. “I look devastating.”

“Devastatingly deranged, sure.” Eve turns back to the door. “I’m working on the hinges.” Villanelle steps behind her and sees Eve is indeed working on the hinges — not even working, she almost has them completely _off_. 

“Wow,” Villanelle breathes, impressed. 

“Thanks.”

They spend an indeterminate amount of time working on the rest of them. Villanelle, getting the one closest to the floor (because standing for too long proves… difficult), and Eve, standing over her, pulling and prying at the one she’s been working on most of the night. Within what feels like an hour, they get the hinges loose enough to pull the door open. With their combined strength, they push it wide enough to slip through.

“Wait,” Villanelle says, as they jog to the door. “Shouldn’t we go up?” And kill them, she wants to say, but she doesn’t know if that’s a sore spot with Eve still.

Eve shakes her head. “They left, a while ago. Planned on leaving us to rot.”

So Villanelle follows Eve out into the world — it’s still dark, must be early morning. They walk until they reach a road with actual cars on it. Eve holds out a thumb, Villanelle loiters on the sidewalk. They keep walking, unsuccessfully hitchhiking, without saying a word. They are going home. They know this. They are going home, and they hope they find Antonia there waiting for them.

It ends up being the bus. There are a few funny looks, of course, because Villanelle is still covered in blood, still keeping her arm close to her body. Eve doesn’t look much better, sure, but that’s beside the point. Side by side, Villanelle wants to put her hand on Eve’s thigh, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t do a lot of things.

Like think about how much she wants to kiss Eve.

They get off at the stop a few blocks from their house. They walk, brisk and pointed, and once they’re a few houses away, Villanelle realizes that going back to their house probably isn’t the smartest thing to do, but they’re doing it. Rather, Eve’s doing it, leading the way, walking a bit too fast for Villanelle, despite her longer legs.

This is the part of the movie where the bereaved parents grasp at straws. They sit down and receive the news, whether it be good or bad. They erupt into tears, hold each other. They erupt into relieved laughter, hold each other. 

Eve pushes into the house two steps ahead of her. 

Villanelle walks in. Eve is a tornado, storming through every inch of the downstairs and then rocketing up to the bedrooms. She doesn’t need to confirm what Villanelle already knows. What Villanelle felt the moment they grabbed the spare key under the mat, unlocked the door, and crossed over the threshold. 

Antonia isn’t here.

There is no eruption, no holding.

There is nothing, because this is not a movie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing these two… there’s SOMETHING about them being married, you know? that type of love that runs so, so deep, yet the question becomes: can it really triumph over everything? is love enough? 
> 
> @dykefruit on twitter. come yell at me.
> 
> this is my favorite chapter, i think. i'm very, very proud of it.


	11. beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When is a monster not a monster?  
> Oh, when you love it...  
> Oh, when you are the reason it has become so mangled."
> 
> \-- Start Here by Caitlyn Siehl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone interested, here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4gQ20P3R29Mu1GWU1XD8xx?si=tj9J-W_FTPecv7yjCC1o9w).

The place is a mess.

Eve searches every inch, every corner, but she knew, after she first stepped inside, that Antonia wasn’t here. Is probably just still on the side of the road in the middle of France. Or dead. Eve doesn’t want to think about it. She returns to the main room to find Villanelle just standing there, looking like some kind of lost and forlorn puppy. Eve kind of wants to hit her.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she snaps, and if she’s being honest with herself, it’s too harsh. Except she’s not being honest, she’s being _angry_. 

Villanelle doesn’t respond, merely moves slightly to the left. Plans were never her thing. Eve pretends not to watch as Villanelle lifts her left hand and flexes the fingers there, wincing in pain.

She doesn’t want to swoop in and save the day. She does it anyway. “Let me see.”

They meet in the middle. Villanelle offers Eve her hand, and Eve scrutinizes it, judging the scraped knuckles and the bruised, obviously broken finger. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“More for this, probably,” Villanelle says softly. She gestures to her shoulder, hidden under her jacket, and Eve lets out an involuntary gasp.

“When did—” The gunshot. Eve remembers. The sound of it shattered her, back in the cells, because she really, really thought Villanelle was dead. 

Villanelle laughs. It’s weird, for Villanelle to be laughing at a time like this. Villanelle laughs, and then her knees give out, and she collapses, out cold. 

.

Eve takes an Uber to the hospital. The driver takes one look at them, Villanelle half conscious and Eve, tucked underneath her significantly taller wife. “It’s fine,” Eve assures him. “I’ll give you a good rating.”

He doesn’t have to say that he’s going to give her a terrible one in return. The things she does for love. 

She spends the ride alternating between checking Villanelle’s breathing, making sure she’s still alive, and thinking about love. What it means. She’d thought a lot about it with Konstantin, in the cell. She’d told herself that if she made it out, she’d come back. Except, she can’t look at Villanelle without wanting to strangle her. It’s because of her that they’re in all of this mess. Because of her that Antonia is… somewhere. Because of her this perpetual ache in Eve’s chest is not going away, not any time soon.

Her first divorce didn’t hurt nearly this much.

There had been screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. Mostly on Eve’s end. She’d hated that — Niko had always remained quiet and calm when they fought, and Eve slowly started to believe she was the insane one, the one not cut out for this kind of life. He told her she worked too much, that she didn’t care. And maybe the second part was true, just a little bit. She _didn’t_ care enough to come home on time for dinner. She didn’t care enough to make an effort.

But she cared with Villanelle.

Cares, still. Maybe. 

Villanelle is awake by the time they get to the emergency room. Eve helps her out, leads her in, and tells the doctors Villanelle’s information. They give her a sedative, start cleaning the wound in the middle of the triage area, and Eve, Eve stares at Villanelle’s hand, hanging off the side of the hospital bed. Begging to be held.

Eve leaves.

.

“Are you _insane_?” Elena stares at her, hands on her hips. 

Except Eve isn’t listening to her. She’s frazzled, going through the various sheets of paper scattered across her desk. There’s nothing here — at least, not the stuff she needs. “Where’s Hugo? Where did they put him?” She hopes it’s not actually the place she’d told the one with the bangs and the annoyed French one. It had been the location of a random safehouse, some ways out of London, to get them out of the way. For a little while. 

“Like we’d tell you,” Elena snaps. “Where _were_ you?”

Kenny, from the other side of the office, watches her carefully. Pitifully. Ugh. This is worse than the first time — at least then, she had some control over how much everyone _knew_ . Niko wasn’t out killing people, of course, but she could control the narrative surrounding her first divorce, if she wished. Bill had been the only one with details. She and Elena had only gotten close immediately _following_ the divorce, as Eve took her up on her offers to get drinks more and more.

Eve tells them the short version. Ran from her most likely psychopathic wife, got black bagged in France, somehow ended up back here, got shoved in a cell with aforementioned psychopathic wife, had words, broke out, dropped Villanelle off at the hospital. She omits the Antonia part of the puzzle, mostly because she can’t think about her little girl out in the cold. “Now,” Eve continues, running an anxious hand through her hair, “Can you tell me where Hugo is?”

Instead of telling her, they take her. Eve sits in the backseat and stares out the window. Kenny gives her those same stupid looks from the driver’s seat, glancing back occasionally. She wants to throw something cliche at him — _take a picture of my emotional breakdown. It’ll last longer_. Except she’s sure she’s showing nothing from the outside, just letting it twist through her until it settles on her tongue, acidic like bile.

No one asks anymore questions, as they drive. Elena gives Kenny directions, and since when did Elena become head of witnesses? Probably when Eve fucked that up, too. They pull up to a large estate, an address that Eve vaguely remembers as on the roster. There are at least five security personnel outside, waving them across the drive.

Hugo, it seems, negotiated himself witness protection in style.

They pull up to a sprawling piece of land, complete with landscaping and gardeners. The huge tudor mansion is the centerpiece, however, with white siding and a beautiful charcoal roof. Eve gazes at it, unwillingly thinking about how she and Villanelle had thought about buying a house soon. Somewhere just outside of the city. A bigger yard. Maybe a dog. 

Fuck.

If Eve wipes at her eyes, it’s not because there’s a small little something pricking there, at the edge of them. It’s just allergies.

The inside is just as impressive, diminished only by Hugo greeting them from the top of a spiral staircase, arms wide. “Polastri! And others. Welcome to _Chez_ Turner.”

“How the hell did you manage this?” Eve takes it in — the art on the walls, the expensive furnishing. How did _MI6_ manage this? She reminds herself to ask Carolyn. 

Hugo reaches the bottom of the stairs, grinning. “I’m _very_ persuasive.”

Elena scoffs. “That, or you’re just annoying.”

“Why not both?” Hugo looks between all three of them. “What brings all of you lovelies to my humble abode?”

As Elena mutters _humble, my arse_ , Eve says, “My daughter is missing,” and all of the air gets sucked out of the room. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then an eruption — Elena says something like _Why didn’t you tell us immediately?_ and Kenny says, _What? Eve, where is she?_ and Hugo says nothing. His expression slips from goading to understanding. Despite (or maybe because of) Eve’s lack of connection to him, he gets it almost immediately.

“Where’d you leave her?” he asks, leading them out of the foyer and into the living area. It’s been gutted, the furniture all removed in favor of desks and shelving, each holding lots of computers, computer servers, and wiring, along the walls, floors, and ceilings. 

They spend the next several hours each at their own computer, utilizing Hugo’s entire company network. It reminds Eve of a not so dissimilar situation weeks ago, when she’d been sitting side by side with Hugo and found Villanelle’s mugshot. _The short version is I killed her husband_. Eve glances over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone pays her any mind, before she pulls up a copy of the prison record.

She reads it over, cementing the words in her head. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. _Castration_. Arson. Manslaughter.

Murder.

Eve tacks on the various kills she’s studied over the years. Vienna, of course. Hugo’s father. Brussels. Amsterdam. All over the place — elegant and stylish kills. Kills Eve spent hours reading, trying to understand, when really, the artist was just in the upstairs bedroom, waiting for her to come to bed.

And because of all this, Antonia is… lost. 

“Find anything?” she asks the room, ignoring the slight crack in her voice. Kenny shrugs, not looking up, and Hugo turns in his chair, appraising her.

“Nothing,” he confirms. “Ran through all of the security footage in the area. Couldn’t find the gas station you mentioned, but we found a few others. Nothing.”

Something about the way he says it. Or the way he looks at her. Not pitifully, like Kenny, but almost like _you should have known better_. She wants to hit him, all of a sudden. Smack that look right off of his face. “You have to look harder.”

“We’re looking as hard we can,” he argues. “We need to call the police.”

“We’re supposed to be better than the police,” she fires back. “You’re on the Twelve’s hitlist because you’re better than anyone!”

“I am good,” he confirms. “But this— it’s a needle in a haystack.”

Eve stands up, and Hugo flinches. “She’s my daughter,” Eve says slowly. “And if you hadn’t gotten on their radar to begin with, we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

“Eve,” Elena interjects. Careful, warning.

Hugo puts a hand up. “Your wife is the reason your daughter is missing,” he says. “Not me.”

Eve lunges. She doesn’t think, only moves, but Elena catches her by the arm, pulls her away from Hugo’s slightly cowering form, and says, “Let’s go.”

Eve lets herself be dragged into the other room, away from everyone. Already, she’s internally kicking herself. What the fuck. The anger washes out like the tide, replaced by something bigger, something that had been looming the entire time, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. 

Devastation.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Eve starts, whispering desperately to Elena. It’s all just words, at this point, no real direction. “My marriage is over.” She says it aloud, and it feels… Right. The tears come, then, now that they’re alone, and as they slip down Eve’s cheeks, Elena pulls her into a tight hug. They’ve always been work friends. Then, friends who get drinks. Then, friends who babysit. They’ve had dinner with Kenny and Elena numerous times. Eve had been waiting for their own announcement of engagement, sure enough to come at some point. 

“Shh,” Elena whispers, holding her close. “Just cry, Eve. It’s okay.”

Eve wants to say that it’s _not_ , it’s really not, but she shakes with the feeling of it. “Am I just… not cut out for it?”

“What do you mean?”

Eve leans back, wiping furiously at her face, getting rid of the evidence. “First, with Niko. We didn’t work out, and I…” She knows why. “I thought this was it, you know? I thought she— Am I insane that I just shacked up with the first twenty-something that looked at me after the divorce?” She doesn’t say the rest of it. She doesn’t say she’s unlovable, must be. She doesn’t say she’s beginning to accept that she just can’t do this right. She doesn’t say at least she got Antonia out of it, because maybe she didn’t get _anything_ out of it. Maybe she’s a terrible fucking mother, leaving her daughter in the middle of fucking nowhere.

“Hey,” Elena says, pulling her back. “I can see you spiraling. You do that thing, where your eyes get all far away and you twist your own thoughts until they’re pulling you apart. Don’t, okay?” She puts her hands on Eve’s cheeks. “You aren’t broken. You aren’t some weird middle-aged spinster who stuck like glue to the first woman who called you beautiful. 

“First of all,” Elena continues. “You _are_ beautiful. You and I both know you don’t need some stupidly attractive psycho-killer to tell you that. And yes, I’m going to call her a psycho-killer for the foreseeable future, and no, none of the advice I’ve read on the internet applies to your specific situation. It’s actually kind of unprecedented.”

Eve lets out a helpless, wet laugh. 

“What I mean to say is,” Elena pushes. “I know I wasn’t around that much the first time. You didn’t really have anyone to talk to, other than…” _Bill_. “But I’m here now. Regardless of how this all shakes out. You aren’t doing this alone. I promise. I was there when we thought she could’ve been cheating, and for the record, I knew that was less likely than being a psycho-killer—”

“That’s twice,” Eve points out.

“Let me have my moment! Bottom line is, I’m still here. And so are you. And we’re going to _find Antonia_ , even if that idiot in there can’t do it.”

Eve meets Elena’s gaze, the fight within her dissolving. She wishes she could go home, twist up into the sheets of her bed, and just lie there. She doesn’t know if she wishes Villanelle was there, too. Instead, she sniffs and nods, wiping angrily at her eyes, readying herself to face the room once more.

“Uh, guys?” Kenny, standing in the doorway, looking desperate not to interrupt. “Villanelle is, erm, on the phone.”

That dissolves the last of Eve’s need to cry. She stalks back into the room, where Hugo waits with the phone held out to her. On speaker, Villanelle hums. 

“What?” Eve asks, as she nears it.

“Eve! I have a question.” There’s some shuffling on Villanelle’s end. “After you not so nicely left me to rot in the ER, I went back home. I went through our things — did Antonia have Mr. Lion, when you left?”

Eve shares a look with Elena and Kenny, before nodding. “Yeah. She took it with her when I…” _Left her in the middle of France_.

“Good,” Villanelle says, “Then there is no need to worry. Where are you?”

“Secret,” Eve counters. “Not telling you.”

“That is fine. The stuffed animal has a tracker. You remember how she refused to go to school without it? I thought that would be perfect, until she grows out of it. Then, maybe her shoe. Still working that out.”

“You…” Eve thinks back. “You _bugged_ our daughter?”

“Yes! We should be able to find her now. She does not leave that thing anywhere.”

Elena steps in, putting a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Let’s not get into the ethical ramifications of this right now, yeah? Bottom line is, we can find Antonia.”

Ethics, sure. That’s why Eve is mad. Not because she should’ve thought of this first. Definitely not.

Villanelle gives them the access codes for the tracker, and soon enough, Hugo is able to pinpoint Antonia’s location no problem. They hang up the phone after that, cutting Villanelle off mid-sentence, and Eve only feels slightly guilty for it. She’d tear Villanelle’s head off, if the situations were reversed. She’d never be able to sit at home, inactive, while someone else searched for her daughter. 

But maybe Villanelle is different. Eve doesn’t know.

.

Villanelle is sitting at the kitchen counter when Eve comes home. 

Elena had driven her, offered to come in if need be, but Eve waved her off. She’s at least ninety-five percent sure Villanelle won’t just kill her and run. The last five percent she’s refusing to think about. So Eve walked in of her own accord, alone, and found Villanelle waiting for her.

“I made tea,” Villanelle offers. “Did you find her?”

“There’s a compound, just outside the city. It’s expensive, owned by some Russian businessman. Probably the Twelve.”

Villanelle hums, curling her long fingers around the mug in front of her. “Can I help?”

Eve sits across from her, brow furrowed. “Why are you asking?”

“I was unsure if you wanted me… involved.”

“No, yeah. Sure, but… Why are you _asking_? If I were in your position, I’d…” 

Villanelle shrugs, choosing to stare into her tea instead of at Eve. She’s usually never this shifty. She meets Eve head on, even during the worst of it. “I will respect whatever you decide,” she says finally. She raises her eyes. “About Antonia… About all of it.”

“That’s…” _Surprisingly mature_. But also, “Bullshit,” Eve concludes, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to want this. You’re supposed to fight for it. Don’t you want to? Are you just going to turn over, play dead, while I save our daughter and leave you?”

“I kill people,” Villanelle says quietly, reverently. “I have killed… so many people, Eve.”

“I know.”

“I killed your friend.”

“I know.”

“I will not be able to forgive myself,” Villanelle adds, “if something happens to her. And you, you should not forgive me for putting you and her in danger.”

“Then why did you? Why not just quit, as soon as we—” Settled down, got married, had a _child_.

Villanelle looks at her in a way Eve can only describe as _you will not like this answer_. She meets the look head on regardless. “I like it.” Simple, to the point. True. 

Honesty is all that’s left.

They don’t talk more about it. Eve tells Villanelle the plan instead, the plan Villanelle is an integral part of. The compound is holding a charity event, a masked gala, in a few days. It’s the closest they’ll come to Antonia without literally breaking in, so despite how much waiting makes Eve itch, she agreed with Elena and Kenny that this was the best option. Villanelle nods, too, silently listening. They’ll go to the gala, Hugo and Kenny will pinpoint the signal, and they’ll deal with whatever is inside when they get there.

And if the entire fleet of assassins for the Twelve are there, too, then sure. They’ll deal with it. 

“We should get ready,” Eve says, leading a silent Villanelle up the stairs and to their bedroom. The place is cleaner, no sign of whatever wake of destruction Villanelle left behind the first time. Eve crosses to the closet and sifts through her clothes, sighing to herself. “I don’t have anything gala-worthy.”

Villanelle stays silent behind her, using her free hand to pick at the splint on her left. Eve turns back to the closet — it’s just turtlenecks, slacks, the occasional dress that’s not even remotely nice enough to go to an event like this. 

She doesn’t hear Villanelle come up behind her, instead feels her, as Villanelle puts a hand on her waist and shifts her to the right, sliding into the closet next to her. 

“I might have something.” Villanelle pulls out a box, buried in the back under Villanelle’s three hundred different purses. She carries it to the bed, sets it there and doesn’t open it.

“What is it?”

“It was supposed to be a gift, for our anniversary, but they fucked up the delivery.”

Villanelle gestures to the box. It’s obvious she’s not going to open it, but Eve doesn’t want to, either. That makes it feel like too much of a _gift_ , and even though it is, but… 

“I’m not opening that.”

“I—” Villanelle frowns. “I bought it for you. You don’t have anything else to wear.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m opening _that_.”

“Eve,” Villanelle whines. “Can you just—”

Eve shakes her head. With an irritated huff, Villanelle passes her and rips the top of the box open. Inside, there’s tissue paper and a deep red ribbon— exactly what Eve didn’t want to find. She’s being stubborn, okay? She’s allowed to be mad. Villanelle uses a single hand to sift through the black fabric inside, revealing a…

Well. 

Two outfits. One, a suit with significantly shorter legs. Must be Eve’s. The second, a dress. Both black. Both beautiful. Except… “Are those snakes?” The suit is a regular black blazer, black pant ensemble, but the blouse underneath is mesh, almost see through, with a snake pattern weaving across the chest and down the navel. The dress matches it, with a high collar, no sleeves, and a snake twisting around the neck and around the breasts.

“It was supposed to be an inside joke,” Villanelle mutters. “Remember on our honeymoon?”

Right. They’d found a snake in their bed, the night after arriving. Eve nods, biting her lip.

“It was stupid.” Villanelle doesn’t look at her. She starts pulling her clothes off, slipping into the dress. She can’t reach the zipper with her single hand, so she points at her back and Eve wordlessly steps in to save the day. She ignores the countless moles on the expanse of Villanelle’s back in front of her. She used to trace them, in bed, connecting them like constellations. Now, she grabs the metal zipper and tugs it up without incident.

Villanelle lifts the blazer. “This one was for you.” She doesn’t stick around to watch Eve put it on, disappearing into the bathroom, no doubt to tie her hair up one hundred times until she gets it right. 

Eve runs her hands over the suit jacket. It’s expensive, that’s for sure. Eve can tell without putting it on that it’ll fit perfectly. Maybe that’s what she’ll miss the most, when they’re done. The way every single piece of clothing Villanelle brought home fit her perfectly.

Slipping out of her own shirt, Eve discards her bra as well, tossing it onto the bed. She pulls the blouse over her head, straightens it out. It’s comfortable as hell, which always infuriates her about the expensive stuff. As she tugs at it, she notices a note in the box. A letter.

Eve glances to the bathroom, where the door remains shut. She can hear the sink running. 

She grabs the letter, quietly opening it. It starts somewhat familiarly —

 _Eve. I hope this gift finds you well_.

Eve remembers, suddenly, a night in Caracao. Bill, sitting on the edge of her bed, as Eve opened a box not too different to this one, before pulling out a royal blue dress that looked devastatingly. No, wait. The dress wasn’t the devastating one — it was its buyer.

_These past few years with you—_

“What are you doing?” Villanelle asks, and Eve jumps. Hadn’t even realized Villanelle had emerged from the bathroom.

In two strides, Villanelle crosses the room and snatches the letter out of her hand. “You don’t get to read this now,” she says, tucking it away.

“Fine. I didn’t want to, anyway.”

“Really? Because it looked like you were.”

“I wasn’t.” 

Villanelle watches her carefully. Even after all these years, Eve wishes she could read Villanelle better. Not when she’s like this — this is closed, for sure. Eyes vacant, shutting out everything, but most of all the hurt. That’s the worst part. Eve knows she’s hurting Villanelle, but something inside of her can’t stop. 

“Okay,” Villanelle says, two distinct syllables.

“Okay,” Eve repeats. 

They each finish getting ready, and Eve catches Villanelle gazing at her more than once. She almost expects to hear _you look amazing_ in that same voice Villanelle usually reserves for just her. She doesn’t. Neither does she turn around and offer Villanelle the same sentiment, despite the fact that she _does_ look incredible. Even with the slight hint of the bandage on her shoulder, she’s devastating.

Eve suppresses the urge to micromanage — she should wear her sling, not use her arm, but if Villanelle’s in pain, she hides it well. She lets her left hand hang at her side, finger splinted and cast. Someone would have to be looking to gauge the amount of injury she’d sustained.

She can’t help but think everyone will see straight through them. Not because they’re obvious, but because Villanelle, despite the cast and the bandage, she’s… beautiful. Everyone will be staring tonight, surely, and they will not be staring at Eve. 

.

“Right. So, this Alexei guy is definitely in the Twelve.”

“I don’t care about the Twelve,” Eve says immediately, staring Kenny down. All four of them, Eve, Villanelle, Kenny, and Elena, are sitting in the back of a surveillance van a few blocks away from the mansion they’d last gotten Antonia’s ping at. “I just want to get Antonia out of the way. Then, we can think about getting the rest of them.”

“Eve,” Elena starts to argue. “This might be our only chance.”

“For what? For putting a five year old in danger?”

“You did that already, actually,” Kenny interjects.

Eve glares at him. Villanelle shifts next to her, says, “I’m on Eve’s side with this. We’re the ones who are going inside, anyway, so we are taking point.”

The way Villanelle fits into this environment — it occurs to Eve that she might actually make a pretty good spy. Ruthless, good at following orders (to an extent), and desperate to please (Eve). Elena and Kenny don’t want to argue with her, not like they do Eve, and yes, that might be because she’s killed more people than are in this van, but Eve does get a thrill at hearing Villanelle actually _agree_ with her. 

“I still think we should call Carolyn,” Elena mutters, shaking her head. 

The other snag. They’d argued about it since figuring out where Antonia was. Elena wants to involve all of MI6, but Eve doesn’t want Villanelle exposed, not yet. She couldn’t bear to see Villanelle dragged away and tossed into a blackbox at the height of the tension. Villanelle caused this, Villanelle would see it out. That, Eve is sure of. 

So they’ll go in, scope it out, make a decision, stay on com with Kenny and Elena the entire time. Easy enough.

“Okay,” Villanelle sighs, bored. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t forget these,” Elena says, pulling out two black, over-the-eye masks.

Together, Eve and Villanelle raise them to their faces, strapping them to their heads. Eve almost wishes she’d put her hair up, but Villanelle had looked at her, eyes wide, the second she reached for the clip. _Wear it down_. Eve had kept it. 

They look like a proper couple, as they step out of the van and into the towncar that will drive them two blocks up the street. Even more so, when Villanelle exits first and holds the door open for Eve, a hand out. Eve watches it carefully, decides she must take it, for appearances. They walk, hand in hand, to the entrance, where a man scrutinizes them.

He’s big, with a large brow that grows even larger as he squints at them. “Names?”

Eve has them prepared. She opens her mouth—

“How _dare_ you,” Villanelle says, emphasizing her Russian accent. “I am Alexei’s niece, and he will _not_ be happy to hear about this.”

The man recognizes the name: Alexei. His eyes widen, looking them up and down. Just for good measure, he says, “And your guest?”

“ _She does realize you have actual confirmed identities, right?”_ Elena’s voice buzzes in Eve’s ear. 

“My wife,” Villanelle almost growls. “Now, can we go in?”

Eve’s seen it before. The barely restrained danger hidden behind Villanelle’s eyes. Antonia’s teachers have seen it. Men at bars have seen it. A look Eve has only seen Villanelle execute correctly. The man shrinks underneath it, as they always do. For a second, it’s almost as if he sees straight through them, sees Villanelle for the monster she really is and sees Eve as the person who… 

The person who loves her. 

The man lets them in. Villanelle doesn’t let go of Eve’s hand, as they walk across the threshold. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Villanelle whispers, as they look out across the ballroom. Suits, dresses, and masks. A crowd of people impossible to judge at a distance, this fast. “What is it?”

Eve doesn’t say. Eve walks willingly into the belly of the beast, and yet somehow, the true beast is right next to her. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably won't post the next chapter until november is over! if you're a fan over on twitter, i'm doing nanowrimo with another project, so that's kicking my ass creatively right now. apologies, but i want to deliver my best writing on the next two. 
> 
> this always has been an examination of love. what it means, when it's not enough. thanks for continuing this journey with me. 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. come scream with me on the bird app @dykefruit -- i post snippets sometimes.
> 
> .
> 
> oh, also. outfit creds to me who found a tweet and bullied @azahuhh into drawing it. view [this](https://twitter.com/azahuhh/status/1301266876375367684?s=20) for a full idea of how these two look at this gala.


	12. end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What should we—” Eve had asked, always ill-prepared for what comes. She held the screaming, dark-haired little girl in her arms with eyes full of wonder, full of what-the-hell-do-I-do-now. They’d spent hours in the hospital, hours discussing an emergency C-section. It had been a mess, all of it, but their baby was here, and she was beautiful.
> 
> Villanelle knew what to do. What to call her. “Antonia,” she said, letting it curl and harden in hard Russian syllables. “It means beautiful.” The baby was, still is, the second most-beautiful thing Villanelle had ever seen.
> 
> She dares someone to guess the first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amsterdam by nothing but thieves? 
> 
> otherwise, no comment. :)

“Can we dance?”

Villanelle’s voice is smaller than she’d like it to be. Eve releases Villanelle's hand at the question, rubbing an open and apparently clammy palm against her slacks. She looks just as good as Villanelle thought she would in the suit — it fits perfectly. With her hair down, dark curls twisting across the transparent mesh of the blouse, she looks almost as good as the day Villanelle married her.

Eve’s face twists at the suggestion. Villanelle waits, at the edge of the room, for a response. When it doesn’t come, she says, “We have some time. Please.”

She holds out her hand. 

Eve takes it.

They migrate to the floor, where other couples are locked into stilted, uncomfortable two-steps. Villanelle goes to rest her hand on Eve’s hip, but Eve quickly grabs her left hand, one of her fingers still splinted, a bit too hard. “Sorry,” Eve says. Then, “I’m leading.”

“Sure.” Villanelle gladly rests her left arm on Eve’s, letting Eve hold her up. Seven years ago, dancing was not on Villanelle’s list of skills. Her resume, should she have had one, would’ve read like a horror thriller, a criminal’s dream. For their wedding, she learned. “Do you remember,” she asks, ignoring the space between their bodies and what it means, “When we danced at our wedding?”

Eve glares at her, like she doesn’t wish to remember. Slowly, she nods. “You weren’t great.”

“At least I took lessons,” Villanelle complains.

“Yeah, who taught you, a football player?”

As if on cue, Villanelle trips a little. “It’s the heels,” she says automatically, as if that makes up for it. 

Eve is quiet for a long moment. They sway with the music, something classical and heartbreaking. Way too close to home, if you ask Villanelle. Finally, Eve says, “Do you wear stuff like this, when you…”

“Kill people?” If she says the words again and again - _kill people_ \- it serves as a reminder. She needs Eve to _understand_. She needs Eve to make a decision based on the real her. Truth, above all. 

Eve, if she has a feeling about Villanelle’s words, reacts to nothing. She’s so good at hiding and running. Villanelle wishes she would stay, just this once, and show herself. Villanelle would stay, if she chose to. She would stay and she would look and she would tell Eve that she _understands_. She wishes Eve would look at her, truly look at her, and understand as well.

“Sometimes,” Villanelle offers, pulling Eve’s shoulder just the slightest. They migrate closer, the space between shortening, and Villanelle’s heart almost leaps the distance.

“It seems impractical,” Eve criticizes. “I mean, heels? Really?”

“I like them.” Villanelle emphasizes her point by initiating an impromptu twirl, much to Eve’s annoyance. Villanelle’s height makes the move awkward, and she does brush her bad shoulder against Eve’s, though she hides the wince.

They fall back into step, closer than before. Eve chews on her lip, has that look about her that Villanelle knows means she’s figuring out _how_ to ask something. 

“Just ask,” Villanelle tells her. “I know you want to.”

“Tell me about Amsterdam.”

Villanelle is being honest, first and foremost. And honesty comes at a price. She wrinkles her nose. “Uh. Which?”

“Jesus,” Eve breathes. “You can’t even remember them?”

“I remember a lot,” Villanelle says. “Not all of them, though. There are too many.”

“You gutted him.” Blunt, to the point. Like the knife Villanelle remembers using, now that Eve has reminded her. “Remember now?”

“That job was cheap,” Villanelle complains, but she notices, as she keeps talking, that Eve pays less attention to keeping them apart, more attention to Villanelle’s words. If she keeps talking, maybe their torsos will brush... “Konstantin told me it was for them, but I think it was to get some extra money in his pocket.” After a beat, she adds, “I do not like being used.”

“Interesting profession you chose, then."

“I didn’t choose it.” Villanelle tightens her grip on Eve’s hand, grateful when Eve doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, she meets Villanelle’s gaze. Challenges it. “You are right, though,” Villanelle continues. “I saw a painting in a museum, once.”

“What does this have to do with killing?”

“You would know, if you stopped interrupting.”

Eve’s mouth shuts, the soft _click_ of her teeth.

“I saw a painting. A man, suspended by his feet. A gash through him, starting just below the navel, running down his middle. His insides, they were…”

“Outside,” Eve breathes. “I remember walking up to that scene.”

“Tell me how it felt,” Villanelle urges, and they’re close now, chests almost touching. “What did you think?”

“I…” Eve blinks, almost as if she’s remembering herself. Villanelle watches her make the decision to tell the truth. “I was impressed. It was artistry. I remember thinking that _this_ was the type of thing that deserved to be in museums, not just paintings of it. I remember… feeling _lucky_ , almost. That I got to see it.”

“You could see it again,” Villanelle says, her mouth beating her brain.

“Is it fucked up that I kind of want to?”

“I would kill everyone, if only to put on a show for you.”

Too far.

The soft glaze of curiosity in Eve’s expression disappears almost immediately. Her hand slips out of Villanelle’s, she takes a step back. Villanelle wants to grab her by the waist and kiss her, breathe a sense of relief into Eve’s mouth, but she doesn’t. She watches instead, as Eve shakes her head, slowly backs up, and turns, fleeing into the crowd. Leaving Villanelle alone on the dance floor.

“ _Let her go_ ,” Elena’s voice says in her ear. She almost swats at it, a buzzing fly of annoyance. 

“I know how to deal with her,” Villanelle snaps. “I do not need unsolicited advice.”

_“I think you need to consider that you’re a bit more than just in the doghouse right now.”_

“Who are you? A marriage counselor?” Villanelle moves to the edge of the ballroom floor, ignoring the looks she’s getting. She wants to drink, and she _never_ wants to drink. “Besides,” she continues, voice low. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding Antonia?”

 _“Working on it,”_ comes the response. 

Villanelle snags a flute of champagne off the nearest waiter’s tray, taking a sip before deciding it’s definitely a bad idea. Her shoulder aches, her feet hurt, and she just wants to go home, cuddle up to Eve and Antonia, and watch a movie.

She doesn’t let herself consider that she may never do those things again.

.

She finds Eve on the balcony overlooking the ballroom. 

Villanelle rests her elbows on the railing, leaning forward. She bends her neck to look at Eve, smiling, and says, “We are supposed to be snooping.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“Your face.” Villanelle waves a hand in front of Eve’s gaze, breaking her hard, concentrated zoning out. “Did I upset you that badly?”

“You…” Eve _laughs_ , actually. She shakes her head, and her curls bounce. Villanelle wants to run her hands through them, ruin them, desperately. “You know this can’t work, right?”

Villanelle toes the ground with her heeled foot. “This?”

“Us. You and me.”

“Oh.”

Logically, yes, she knew it would come to this. “You ran,” Villanelle says. “The other morning, yes? You ran. You weren’t taken. You drugged me, and you… left.”

“Yeah,” Eve says, nodding. “Sorry.” Eve finally does it, then. She reaches up and runs a hand through her hair, pulling it back and out of her face. “After this is over, after we get Antonia back, I… just wanna go. Probably to the States. I don’t know. Somewhere far away from all of this.”

“Will you tell her about me? When she’s older?”

Eve looks at her sharply. “That you kill people?”

“Sure,” Villanelle shrugs. “But also that I am devastating. Stylish. More stylish than you. How well-traveled I am. Oh, and keep up with her languages, please. She’ll lose them if she doesn’t practice.”

“How would I even—”

“Get a tutor,” Villanelle suggests. “I’ll send you money.”

“I don’t want…” Eve runs her eyes over Villanelle’s face. “You’re really just going to let us leave?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that she has a _choice_ in the matter. She says, “Why not?”

“I just— I expected you to _fight_ or something.”

“Physically?”

“No, just…” Eve sighs, puts her hands on the railing. She leans forward, dipping her head between her arms. When she raises it again, she’s annoyed. “Don’t you care? Don’t you want us?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you have an opinion? Why aren’t you willing to kill to keep us?”

“Who would I kill?” Villanelle turns her back on the ballroom. “You?” She flashes Eve a smile. “That would be a great argument for keeping my child.”

Eve mutters something under her breath, but Villanelle doesn’t care enough to ask. A giant weight has been taken off her chest, now that she can think about Eve and Antonia off somewhere, safe at the very least. She should’ve thought of this sooner. She could send them money, Eve could send her updates. Pictures of the little things, like the pencil marks in the wall as Antonia gets taller (not too tall, though, with Eve’s genes), or the report cards. The more she thinks about it, the more Villanelle is almost sure she could handle it.

She could handle a normal life. She can handle a normal divorce.

“I hate that you’re being so easy,” Eve finally says. “I thought you cared more.”

More? Isn’t this the most caring thing she can do? “I don’t understand,” Villanelle says slowly. She’s not used to admitting it, but with Eve, she thinks she can admit anything. “Letting the two of you be safe, away from all of this, that is not caring? How do I do it more?”

It would be so easy to reach out and touch Eve. Grab the edge of her blazer and pull her in. Let their hips lean against each other, as Villanelle bends to kiss her. It would be so easy.

“You’re right,” Eve says, and that is not easy for _her_. Villanelle can count on one hand the times Eve has said that exact combination of words.

“I am?” It comes out teasing.

A quick, “Shut up,” and then, “I guess I have this version of love, or— or caring in my head that means _having_. I guess I’m more antiquated than you.”

“True.”

Eve glares at her, chewing her lip. “You’d really just let us leave? Just like that?”

“Things will be very different if we find a dead little insect somewhere in this house,” Villanelle says slowly. “But yes. I think so.”

Eve opens her mouth to say something, but Kenny’s voice buzzes in each of their ears, an almost yell of, “ _We found her!”_ Instantly, Eve’s gaze goes distant, and she raises a finger to her ear.

Villanelle wants to say, you don’t have to touch the mic, Eve, but she lets Eve listen. Somewhere in the basement, Kenny is saying. Somewhere, Antonia is tucked away, or at least the tracker is. 

Eve listens, and Villanelle watches, running her gaze over the dance floor. Unsurprisingly, a familiar face steps into the room across the way, so Villanelle leans into Eve. “You go,” she suggests. Her shoulder aches, burning with a dull pain, already anticipating the beating she’s going to get.

Eve turns and follows Villanelle’s gaze. The newcomer stands out amongst the crowd, mostly due to her lack of a mask settled across her face. Eve’s eyes find Villanelle’s. “You’re sure?” She looks at Villanelle’s bare shoulder, no doubt settling on the hint of bandage poking out from under the dress.

Villanelle nods. She has this. She moves past Eve, as Kenny continues with instructions in each of their ears. She leans into Eve, squeezing Eve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says into Eve’s ear.

Eve twists and looks at her. “For everything?”

“No,” Villanelle corrects, though she supposes she _is_ sorry for it all. Not right now, though. Should she go downstairs and die, she needs Eve to hear it. “For killing your friend. I am sorry.”

She thinks, just maybe, that she sees Eve’s gaze flit down to her lips. For a second, it is almost like Eve will kiss her. Whatever it was, Eve thinks better of it, and Villanelle decides to be okay with that. She can’t even remember the last kiss they shared, should it really, truly be the last. The night before Eve left? The morning of? 

“I’m going,” Eve tells Kenny, watching Villanelle carefully. To Villanelle, she says, “Don’t be brave.”

Oh, Eve. What kind of example would she be, if not brave? 

“Find our daughter,” Villanelle tells her, before turning and walking to the stairs. 

.

Rhian meets her at the bottom. Villanelle holds out her hand, two steps and almost a foot higher than Rhian’s height, and says, “May I have this dance?”

Annoyed, Rhian takes Villanelle’s hand somewhat roughly, pulling her into the crowd of people. They don’t stop to get situated. Instead, they push through and out of it, into a back hallway away from everyone else. Rhian wastes no time — she shoves Villanelle against the wall, hard, and Villanelle decides she should’ve worn the suit, instead of Eve. The dress, while comfortable, pulls against her hips and limits her movement. Great.

She hopes she doesn’t live long enough to tell Eve she was right. _That_ would be such a bummer.

Rhian pulls out a switchblade next, so Villanelle reaches between her own legs, where she’d hidden a knife strapped to her thigh. "Ha!" she gloats, showing Rhian her knife. "Mine is bigger than yours."

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Rhian’s eyes, once she sees they’re on almost equal footing. They circle each other, in the middle of this hallway, and Villanelle almost wants to gloat — they’re not even _close_ to equal footing. Villanelle could beat Rhian with her eyes closed, and Rhian knows this.

She waits. The best offense is a really, really good defense.

Rhian loses patience. She lunges forward, swiping with her blade, and Villanelle blocks it with her good hand, catches Rhian’s wrist, and brings it down as she brings up her own knee. The bones of Rhian’s wrist _snap_ with a satisfyingly quick crunch, and Rhian barely has it in her to scream. She drops to her knees, and Villanelle can’t help but play with her food, just a little.

She holds her blade to Rhian’s throat, left arm tucked safely at her side. “Give up?”

“Fuck you,” Rhian spits.

Rhian’s next move is an elbow to Villanelle’s gut. She doubles over, hissing as Rhian goes for her bad shoulder, opting for the cocky choice, not the logical one. She uses her hand instead of her knife, digging a thumb into the bullet wound, and Villanelle sees stars.

She falls to her knees, black edging at her vision. She has just enough sense to use her blade — she swings blindly, grinning when she hits gold. Her knife lodges into Rhian’s side with a satisfying slip between ribs, and Rhian lets go of her almost immediately. 

Villanelle stands up. Rhian holds her wound around the knife. A wobbly, desperate hand forces its way between them, as Villanelle takes a step forward. “Please,” Rhian says. “Please, you don’t have to—”

“Kill you?” Villanelle tilts her head to the side. “Normally, I would do it quickly. Almost painless. Except you are the worst.”

Villanelle smacks Rhian with her good arm, enjoying the way the blood spatters out of her mouth and onto the wall. Messy is her favorite; she doesn’t get to indulge often. She’s glad, for a moment, that Eve is somewhere else, somewhere far away from Villanelle’s jaw unhinging, getting ready to swallow Rhian whole.

Except, she’s not. “Villanelle,” Eve’s voice says, and Villanelle looks up to see Eve standing at the other end of the hallway. Paused, maybe terrified. Villanelle can’t tell from this distance.

“Eve,” she counters, taking another step toward Rhian. 

“Antonia isn’t here.” Eve holds up the stuffed animal. No insect.

Rhian is fading, quickly. She will die from the knife wound, untreated. Villanelle could just leave her here, let her bleed out. But where would the fun be?

The only problem is… Eve. She didn’t watch Villanelle get beat to shit. She hasn’t seen Villanelle in her prime, only the aftermath. She wants to say, _Please watch, Eve,_ as though it will make a difference what Eve thinks. Eve’s already made up her mind. They are over. What’s a little witnessing murder when it comes to divorce proceedings? 

“I’m going to kill her,” Villanelle says, and Rhian mumbles something around a mouthful of blood. A protest, a plea. Something satisfying. 

Eve says nothing. Just stands there, half bewildered and half... something else. 

Now is where Eve should leave. Keep the image of Villanelle she has in her head, let’s not make it worse. She can’t help but ask. “Do you want to watch?”

Rhian properly stumbles to her knees, blood welling around the wound in her ribs. Villanelle isn’t looking at her, though. She looks at Eve, instead, watching as Eve glances to Rhian, then back to Villanelle. As Eve makes a decision. Finally, Eve says, “Yes.”

Villanelle smiles, knows her lips are red with her own blood. She stalks up to Rhian, shoves her to the ground, and pulls the knife out without preamble. Rhian screams, but Villanelle clamps a hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” she says, tossing the knife a few feet away. She holds Rhian’s mouth with one hand, her bad one, and uses the other to press fingers into Rhian’s wound, make it really, really hurt. The blood is warm and sticky. More than once, Villanelle has wondered what it would be like to bathe in something like it. 

Something alive.

“Where is she?” Villanelle whispers to Rhian. “Do you know?”

A quick headshake. Desperate. Villanelle digs her fingers further into the cut, feels the shudder of Rhian’s body reacting, _rejecting_. 

“Don’t lie,” Villanelle teases. “It’s not becoming.”

Villanelle would be lying if she told anyone there isn’t a certain kind of thrill being seen, truly seen, for the first time. It is almost as if, after this, Eve will be able to make a fully informed decision. If, after this, Eve still doesn’t want her, Villanelle understands. She has been seen too many times by too many people, and then, of course, dismissed. Villanelle can handle it. She could handle normality, being a wife, being a _mother_. She can handle this. 

Except when Villanelle lifts her gaze to Eve’s, she doesn’t find anything expected.

She finds…

That look Eve gives her when Villanelle stands up to a troublesome teacher. The look Eve gives her when neither of them are tired enough for bed. The look Eve gave her when Villanelle proposed. The same look Eve gave her back in Caracao, that first night, after they’d slammed the hotel door shut and kissed against it. 

A fire, igniting.

For fun, Villanelle breaks each of Rhian’s fingers. “Where is Antonia?” Again and again, with every joint cracked. Rhian refuses to answer. Villanelle remembers the training she was put through, back when the Twelve recruited her. She remembers the pain, the torture, the daily regimen of suffering. 

“I am going to kill you, you know,” she whispers to Rhian, nine fingers down, one finger to go. “Unless you tell me.” She hopes, at least, that Antonia is safe. Even if she is far away, gone forever, she should be, at the very least, alive. Breathing. Safe.

“I don’t know! I swear,” Rhian says, voice high in pain. 

“That is not good enough,” Villanelle growls, cracking three fingers at once. Rhian screams, and Villanelle glances up to Eve, who is watching, eyes glued to them. 

“I don’t know,” Rhian mutters, half crying, half through gritted teeth. “I swear.”

“Bad luck.” Villanelle cracks the rest of her fingers. Easy, like snapping pencils. “Thank you,” she says, in a soft, demoralizing tone.

She grabs either side of Rhian’s jaw, twists her head hard and quick enough to snap her neck. Rhian goes limp underneath her.

She expects Eve to be gone. 

But Eve is still here, watching her with dark, blown out pupils. Villanelle stands up, gritting her teeth in pain. 

After the kill, there is a certain level of euphoria. She’s adapted, over the years, to feel it like a runner’s high. Adrenaline, relief, pleasure. It floods through her all at once, blinding her from the ice of pain in her shoulder as she takes a single step over Rhian’s body. Villanelle stands up and waits for Eve to turn tail and run, far, far away. 

Villanelle says, “Well?” 

Eve… Eve starts walking. _Toward_ her. She doesn't look away, walking straight past Rhian's body on the floor. One step after the other, and Villanelle swears she's walking faster with every one.

_Do you want to watch?_

_Yes._

Eve kisses her.

Arms thrown around Villanelle’s shoulders (and the adrenaline, surely, isn’t enough to hide the sharp bolt of pain that shoots through her), Eve falls into her, pressing into Villanelle desperate and unbidden. It’s been a long, long time since they kissed like this. Villanelle drowns in Eve, lets Eve lick her way across Villanelle’s gums, lets Eve bite and pull at her lower lip, lets Eve take _everything_.

Villanelle’s back hits the wall, and Eve grabs at her desperately, forgetting they’re in the middle of some random party, some random hallway, right in plain view — not that Villanelle is complaining. Except, did Eve see her? Like this? She looks to Rhian’s body. Does she really and truly see?

"Wait," Villanelle says, against her better judgement. She holds Eve back, hands on Eve's shoulders. "Wait." Eve's lips, half parted. "Are you..." Villanelle doesn't know if she could bear hearing _no_. "You need to be sure."

"I'm not," Eve says plainly. "But I... I want this. Right now. Is that okay?"

Sure, Eve. Villanelle wants to disappear, because how would she ever say no? Villanelle pulls Eve back in, kissing her hard. If this is the last time, she'll savor it, she'll -- except Eve has other plans. Panting, Eve pulls at Villanelle’s dress. She doesn’t need to say more; Villanelle spreads her legs and Eve doesn’t wait, pressing fingers against the center of her, Villanelle already soaked through. “Fuck,” Eve breathes, and it’s almost like it’s seven years ago, they’re in some random hotel room, too desperate to strip down, too greedy to stop in the middle of any of it.

Eve presses two fingers into her and Villanelle cries out — it blazes straight into her gut as Eve just takes, takes, takes. 

It isn’t delicate or long-lasting. Villanelle comes embarrassingly quickly (the high from the kill gets her halfway there, sure) and Eve marks her, presses her teeth into Villanelle’s neck, her collarbone.

When Eve steps back, breathless, lips swollen, Villanelle realizes one thing and one thing only. 

That was their goodbye. 

.

The ride back to the center of London is a quiet one. 

Villanelle, of course, is running many arguments through her head. But these are words best suited for isolation, when they can finally talk alone. Elena and Kenny are nervous, dampened, and Eve sits near the front and goes over next steps with them. Antonia is still missing, still _lost_ , and Villanelle does not even blame Eve for that, but maybe she should.

Except the anger isn’t there. There’s just a hole in the middle of her, hurting as much as her literal wounds peppering her skin. She wants to say, _Choose me,_ and _Stay here_ , but she told Eve she would let them go, if that was what she wanted. It’s not what Villanelle wants. Even the luxury of killing wouldn’t provide the kind of happiness she’d had the past seven years. Before Antonia, Villanelle never would have said there was anyone else besides Eve.

But this is too much for a little girl. 

“What should we—” Eve had asked, always ill-prepared for what comes. She held the screaming, dark-haired little girl in her arms with eyes full of wonder, full of _what-the-hell-do-I-do-now._ They’d spent hours in the hospital, hours discussing an emergency C-section. It had been a mess, all of it, but their baby was here, and she was beautiful.

Villanelle knew what to do. What to call her. “Antonia,” she said, letting it curl and harden in hard Russian syllables. “It means beautiful.” The baby was, still is, the second most-beautiful thing Villanelle had ever seen.

She dares someone to guess the first. 

Eve wants to keep looking, and Elena promises her they’re getting MI6 involved now, getting something set up at the office. Eve keeps looking at her, and Villanelle knows what she’s trying to do. She needs to decide what to do with Villanelle, whether she turns her in or gives her a head start. Villanelle wants to pack a bag — just a few things, and then she’ll go, if Eve asks her to. She’ll go.

She doesn’t want to. But she will.

Elena and Kenny don’t say much of anything when they stop in front of their house. Villanelle climbs out of the van and gazes at their flat. Will this be the last time? She doesn’t know. Eve comes up behind her, standing still as the van leaves. “I don’t want them to get you,” Eve admits, voice low.

“Them?”

“MI6, whoever. You should…” Villanelle turns to Eve, searching her eyes. “You should get out before they…”

“I’ll stay in the city,” Villanelle tells her. “Until they find Antonia.”

“Sure.”

Eve leads the way into their home. Villanelle commits every piece of her to memory — her hair, thick and curly. The last time she’d ran her hands through it, how it felt. Eve’s shoulders, the subtle curve of her neck. Her body… How many times had Villanelle wrapped her arms around Eve’s torso? Pulled her close? Not enough. Not nearly enough. Villanelle thinks about the pain medication the hospital gave her, thinks about taking some and just collapsing, sleeping through all of this so she doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable feeling of _hurt_. 

As she walks through the threshold, Villanelle runs straight into Eve’s back. She places her hands on Eve’s shoulders to steady the both of them.

She looks up.

Hélène stands in the middle of their den, dressed to the nines as usual. Behind them is another voice, low and gritty. “Don’t move,” Konstantin says, sticking a gun into the small of Villanelle’s back.

“I am not good at directions,” Villanelle counters, rolling her eyes. She is _tired_.

“Where’s Antonia?” Eve asks, always on top of it. 

Behind Hélène, another figure steps out, holding the short shoulders of their daughter. Villanelle scowls — _of course_. How could she be so stupid? Dasha stands there, hands on Antonia, and holds her in place. She gives Villanelle an ugly grin, showing her stupid, stained teeth.

Eve’s breath catches. Antonia’s eyes shine.

“You are so gross,” Villanelle tells Dasha. She’s doing the calculations in her head — Konstantin is easy. Take the gun, shoot him quickly (and _don’t, don’t, don’t_ think about it). Hélène next, right between the eyes. Except, in the time it took to do that, Dasha would have Antonia snapped in two.

If she managed, with her old lady hands.

“You are annoying,” Dasha fires back.

“All right,” Eve interrupts, putting hands up. She levels her gaze at Hélène. “What do you want?”

“We used to want her,” Hélène replies, tilting her head to Villanelle. “But we have come to the conclusion that she is a liability.”

“You are so stupid,” Dasha taunts. “You taught this little girl so many languages, she is practically already trained. Pity she does not have your taste for blood.”

“She has mine,” Eve growls, her tone devastating for the first time. Villanelle thinks distantly of bears — what is that rule? Don’t get between a mother and her cub? 

“Yeah,” Villanelle encourages, like a deranged groupie.

“We’re taking the girl,” Hélène continues, obviously annoyed at Dasha. “We’re taking her and we’re training her, just as we trained you.” Villanelle flinches, thinking about the grueling tests and conditions she’d been forced into. Months of cold, months of punishment, months of the same thing, over and over.

Antonia will not have her childhood robbed of her.

“MI6 is on their way,” Eve tries, but Hélène shakes her head.

“The first part of her training,” Hélène says, “will be watching her parents die.”

Konstantin kicks the back of Villanelle’s knees, and Eve’s a moment later. They both land hard, Villanelle wincing as her body erupts in pain. The adrenaline from earlier is fading, and everything, every piece of her, aches. Eve’s knees haven’t been good lately to begin with, and Villanelle fights the urge to reach out to her, pull her close. It would probably do more harm than good.

“Umma,” Antonia whimpers, then she looks at Villanelle. “Mama…”

“It’s okay, baby,” Eve says. Villanelle gives Antonia a small nod, a small smile.

Behind her, Konstantin lifts the gun. To her surprise, he doesn’t level it at Eve’s head first. She expected them to make her watch as Eve died, body broken on the carpet. Instead, it’s the other way around. Eve turns her head, takes it in, and Villanelle meets her eyes. 

With a gun to her head, Villanelle says, “See, Konstantin? You were wrong.”

“Wrong?” he wonders, clicking off the safety. “What was I wrong about?”

“I can be normal. I can _love_.” 

Villanelle looks at Eve, and she feels… something like peace. “Kill me,” she says, turning to Hélène. “Kill me, and they’ll be out of your hair. You can… you can take Antonia. Eve won’t come after you, and I won’t, if I am dead, right? So kill me. Don’t hurt them.”

Eve says, “I’ll never stop.”

 _Eve_ , Villanelle wants to whine. _You are not helping_.

Except Eve reaches over and grabs Villanelle’s hand. She squeezes it. “I won’t stop. Ever.” She turns to Hélène. “You’re going to have to fucking kill me.”

Hélène sighs, then nods to Konstantin. Villanelle looks at Eve, then at Antonia, and watches, almost in slow motion, as —

Antonia bites down on Dasha’s hand. 

Dasha screams, letting go, and Villanelle floods with euphoria — her eyes flutter closed, expecting Konstantin to pull the trigger, except there’s some wrestling and a grunt and Villanelle opens her eyes to find Eve with her hands on the gun, pulling it somehow out of Konstantin's grip. She wins the grapple, instantly adjusting to shoot.

Eve shoots Konstantin in the foot and he howls.

Antonia collides with Villanelle, who wraps her arms around her and hugs her, if only for a moment. Dasha lunges, and Villanelle stands up, hiding Antonia behind her. Eve acts reflexively — she pulls the trigger. Down Dasha goes, gut shot. Villanelle breaks into a wide smile, watching Eve turn to Hélène.

“Kill her,” Villanelle says.

And Eve does.

Right between the eyes.

The gun falls to the ground, and Eve shakes with wordless anxiety. Villanelle pulls her in, Antonia between the two of them, and she doesn’t hesitate to press kisses to Eve’s head, breathing her in. “It’s okay,” she tells Eve, holding her. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” Eve wraps into her, holding tight, and the three of them stand there, consoling, a family back together again.

Villanelle notices Konstantin going for the gun, scrabbling across the ground. She extracts herself from Eve and Antonia, standing. She steps on his hand. “You see?” she snarls to him, stepping hard. She leans down. “I’ll give you a head start before I come after you and your entire family.” She whispers, “I want you to watch them _bleed_.”

She removes her foot. Konstantin manages to get up, breathing hard. He gives her a look. “I was wrong,” he says, before he steps out the door and disappears down the street.

Villanelle pulls Eve and Antonia back to her and holds them. Safe. For now.

.

Eve sits on the couch with Antonia now, phone in hand. 

“I’m not in trouble,” Antonia wonders, voice tiny.

“No, baby,” Eve murmurs.

Villanelle comes over and kneels in front of her, placing her hands on Antonia’s little cheeks. “You did such a good job! Such strong jaws." She pinches the skin of Antonia's face, making her daughter giggle. It feels good to hear her like that, somehow not crying in the thick of it.

Sobering, Antonia looks to Dasha and Hélène’s bodies. “Are they… dead?”

“Yes,” Villanelle confirms, glancing to Eve, whose eyes are glazed over. “They are. Let’s go sit outside, okay? With your Umma, let’s go.” Villanelle lifts Antonia up, letting her rest on her hip. She holds out her free hand to Eve, and Eve looks at it for a long moment.

She takes it.

Villanelle makes the appropriate calls. She waits with them outside, as MI6 hurtles toward them in various emergency vehicles. She will go to jail, but her family is safe, at the very least. She counts the minutes she has left.

“You should…” Eve starts, sitting on the curb. Antonia sits between them, her head in Villanelle’s lap as she sleeps. “You should go.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Villanelle replies.

“We need to talk about all of this.”

“Whatever you want,” Villanelle says, putting a hand on Antonia’s head. 

Eve nods. A terrible, terrible silence stretches between the two of them, as the leaves rustle in the wind. It’s dark, the city somewhat quiet. Will she miss London? Probably not. But she will miss the walks she takes with Antonia, the early mornings with Eve, whether they spent them in silence, separately doing their own thing, or whether they spent them in soft moans and whispers, bodies moving against each other. She will miss all of it, but she will deal. She always deals.

Eve lets out a small exhale. Villanelle waits for it. _We'll need to get lawyers, or something._ Official proceedings. Villanelle will give Eve whatever she wants, honestly.

Except, Eve doesn't say that. 

Instead, she says, "Therapy."

Villanelle looks at her. “What?” Somewhere in the distance, sirens get closer. 

“Niko wanted to do it, before. I thought there was no point. I told him it was because I didn’t believe in it, but it was because I didn’t care enough.” Eve rests her forearms on her knees.

“And now?”

Eve lifts her head. “I care too much. I want this to work, I want…” She half smiles, shaking her head. “Despite everything, I want you.”

Villanelle could burst from excitement. She could run into the street and yell as loud as she can — _EVE CARES!_ but she doesn’t. Not with Antonia in her lap. Not with the sirens coming closer, closer. “So,” she whistles, grinning. “Therapy.”

“Yeah,” Eve laughs. “That should be interesting.” Eve puts a hand on Antonia’s back, rubbing her thumb across her shirt. “Oh, and you’re working for MI6 now.”

 _That’s_ news. “New job. Intense.”

“Either that or prison.”

“I love my new job,” Villanelle affirms, nodding her head. She reaches out her hand, finding Eve’s. Eve takes it, squeezing.

“She’s going to be so fucked up,” Eve mutters.

“But she will be our little fuck up,” Villanelle reminds her. Emergency vehicles make the turn down the street, turning their sirens off. 

Villanelle wakes Antonia up, standing, and watches as they come. Crime scene techs go in to remove the bodies, and a very tall, official looking woman steps out of a black sedan. Eve goes over and talks to her, as Villanelle stays with Antonia. “Everything okay, little lion?”

“I think so,” Antonia says. “Are we going to a hotel?”

“For a little while.” Villanelle wipes a dried drop of blood from Antonia’s face. “We’ll go get you checked up first, see if they hurt you.”

Antonia nods, leaning into her. She lifts her hand and begins to suck on her thumb, but Villanelle doesn’t have it in her to correct her. Instead, she lifts her head and surveys the crowd. She catches Eve’s eye, gives her a nod. Eve stares at her a minute, turning to Carolyn and saying a few words. Carolyn glances at them, and Villanelle lifts her hand and gives her a wave.

Her family. Her wife. Her job.

Sounds pretty normal to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, you guys! there is, of course, an epilogue coming after this, so i'll save the Sentiments until after that, but wow! thank you all so much for your continued support. this story certainly wouldn't have existed/been finished without it. 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated. check me out on twitter @dykefruit.
> 
> i'm sad :) things are ending :) but hopefully this was well worth it.


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